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Chapter I

What started as a beautiful night for a stroll in the woods was ending quite differently, and even though Al Jefferson was a strong man, the duress of torture finally broke his will and scattered his hopes into oblivion.

Even amid the agony, his mind flashed upon his loved ones as tears of sadness mixed with tears of pain. He knew he would never see his daughter again or experience the joy of holding his soon-to-be-granddaughter just weeks from birth. All his grand plans for a happy retirement as a doting grandfather blew from his thoughts like grains of sand facing the onslaught of a hurricane.

However, in spite of the overriding despair entrenched firmly in those realizations, the inevitability of his plight also gave him one final surge of strength that granted release, freeing his last moments from his torment of pain, fear, and remorse.

As his life ended, he would be a victim no longer. Watching Jefferson’s eyes glaze over slowly, pausing slightly at his

victim’s last breath, the killer completed his masterpiece by devouring the last shreds of the dying man’s existence while feasting on the final seconds of his fleeting mortality.

A flood of intense emotions springing from the end of Jefferson’s hopes and dreams satisfied the killer in a most substantial way, but the lack of horror and resignation from his victim at the end robbed him of total delight. He also struggled against a wave of rising depression accompanying the end of this night. Despite acknowledging and accepting those contradicting emotions, he continued working his plan to its end, washing the blood and pieces of skin from his hands and body while watching with intense satisfaction as the flotsam of his latest creation (destruction) swept away into the bowels of the mountain cave.

He paused briefly to reflect on these past two nights, basking in the power his slayings imbued even as he gave thought to his future. It had been so very

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long since he was able to absorb the delight of two killings in as many days and that recognition raised an even broader smile on his face. He knew the trumpeting of these murders would enhance his growing legacy now that the newspapers and media outlets were increasingly aware of his efforts, and that thought bolstered him with the realization that the fear produced by each successive kill made his future prospects exponentially more productive.

Opening a large knapsack by his feet, he pulled out a set of clothes to replace the ones now wrapped alongside the victim- part of the seeding of evidence that was part of his overall plan. Only the evidence he wanted to be seen would be present once the police found the body. His crimes were perfect, though those killed and those arrested for those killings might not agree.

A sudden beeping of his watch shocked him back to reality, its alarm warning it was late or early depending on the point of view, but definitely time to move once again.

While his emotions drifted back into his mind’s dark chambers, he made a mental note to purchase an alarm clock for his hideaway, as he was never sure of having a watch.

Yes, he thought, that would be helpful. This state of thoughtful reflection was not part of his normal psyche and

brought up ideas rarely considered. He briefly mused about changing his venue and methods but quickly dismissed those ideas. His hideaway was nearly perfect- a blend of natural and supernatural that combined with his unique style brought shocking reactions from his victims.

Besides, this cave was as close to a home as his warped mind could grasp. Even while daydreaming, he continued wrapping this latest corpse to

prevent fluids from leaking during transport and with them any scents that animals might track. Once completed there would be no obvious way for anyone to find his hideout.

Hoisting the carcass on his back, he made his way out onto the expanse of the mountain terrain surrounding his lair. If he felt the additional burden of

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weight, his carriage failed to reflect it as he bounded out of the cave and into the moonlit evening.

Pausing briefly to roll a few boulders back into place, effectively hiding his lair from any cursory inspection, he proceeded to carry the body down the mountain with impressive speed.

His path this time was to a place less known, less traveled, but one he often used in the distant past. Even though much had changed over the years- people, progress, culture- the basic lay of the land remained effectively static since the beginning.

He could accept a small delay in their finding his latest victim- though he cringed at the thought that it might remain unfound. That would be unacceptable. His work must be known- but on his own terms.

He was now many miles north of where he started this evening, leading to some unfamiliarity, but he remained confident that he knew the basic direction needed to reach his planned destination. After thirty minutes he neared the final resting place for the body he carried, he came to a sudden stop, angered when his path dead-ended at an unexpected chasm.

This was something new, perhaps, or maybe just something he had forgotten. Cursing, he glanced again at his watch, realizing the need for haste. Standing in the gloom before dawn, the waning light of the setting moon left him enough illumination to calculate the physical options available.

The small gorge was the remnant of a long dried up stream that over time cut into the bedrock of the land to create this obstacle before him. He was unable to see an end or any easy way to cross it, leaving him three options. He could leave the victim here, short of his planned destination, he could attempt to traverse the steep banks of the gorge, or he could jump.

Leaving the body here would have been a diminishment of his plan- so he rejected that choice. Looking down the cliff-like sides of the crevasse, he knew he had the wherewithal to carry the body down to the bottom then up the other side- it would just take time.

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He decided that, too, was unacceptable given the constraints of the fading darkness.

With only one choice left, he determined to attempt the jump, made possible since the south ridge where he stood was a good eight feet higher than the north. It was not an easy jump, not by a long shot. His strength was waning, yet still great, but even his power did not guarantee success. His worst-case scenario would be that he fell short of the other side; falling to the bottom of the gorge along with the trophy that he carried.

He laughed as he thought this possibility through. After all, if he failed to clear the span he would be no worse off than if he dropped the body here- his prize would find simply find rest at the bottom of the ravine. While not nearly optimal, he was confident that the authorities would still discover his prize before too long.

Hoisting the corpse onto his back, he examined the chasm for the best spot to make his attempt, settling on a path that promised the shortest horizontal distance and greatest vertical drop. He sprinted away from the edge, then turned around and ran full speed, leaping at just the right moment, allowing his momentum to carry him across and down to the other side.

Nearing the ground, he smiled as he realized he would make it with some few feet to spare. He remained unharmed by the effort, though he was fairly certain he heard the snapping of the spine of his victim as he landed. He paused to consider that fact before laughing as he imagined the confusion of the person(s) conducting the autopsy. He eventually decided that he had only admiration for effort and glanced at the nearly moonless sky before proceeding to complete his task.

Upon reaching his destination, he readied the body for display, placing the body on the ground almost gently, even though nothing in his nature even approached that description. His seeming tenderness was born of a desire to present his trophy in a most horrifying way, yet still allowing for the belief that the killer was not just some random lunatic.

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He had depths, this killer did: intelligent, determined, powerful, and driven.

He reveled in his successes as he imposed his will on the surrounding communities, forcing them to begin accepting the fear of him as part of their everyday lives.

His mind wandered back to those times when his victims were cornered and delivered to his lair, times when he wrung the full harvest from his seeds of fear, times for devouring their horror as sustenance for what passed as his soul. Adrenaline mixed with endorphins poured through his body and brain as he replayed his memories- even while working furiously to complete his task.

Finishing the display, he stepped back to admire his latest work one last time. Soon someone would chance upon the body, hopefully before some animal overcame the fear of this place to devour the corpse, or it decayed too far. Then the cycle of fear in the populace would continue, accelerate, and intensify.

Running back along the path, he made his way south once again. After some time, he neared the place where this past night started. Reaching the car he used earlier, he stopped to catch his breath and realized how very tired he was.

Gazing into the vehicle, he congratulated himself on his latest choices, knowing the eventual detective work on this case would bring yet another mystery to the authorities. After all, it was impossible for this person to have committed this murder- and yet all evidence would say otherwise.

Now, despite his desire to stay and revel further, his current time of glee and power was at an end. Leaning against a nearby tree for support, he took a step toward the car before his body slumped to the ground.

Falling to the ground, the man lay in a deep sleep, even as a vicious wind swept across him back up the mountain.

Dawn was here.

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Chapter II

“Did you hear about how they found the body?” the young woman asked her friends with her voice pitched breathlessly low enough to keep their conversation private, yet loud enough for the others to catch her tone of worry mixed with excitement. “They say he was tortured just like the others.” Even as she spoke, despite the veil of horror shading her tones, she still managed to make eye contact with a young man a few tables away, smiling in response to his dark-eyed stare.

The man smiled back. The small Town Center Coffee Shop and Deli catered to a brisk in-and-

out crowd throughout the day, while also providing a few tables spaced around the shop for those who chose to sit and talk. With closing time approaching this October night, the normal bustle of people subsided, leaving only two tables occupied- the young man at one table and the five gossiping women at another. The resulting privacy was fine as far as the killer was concerned since he had no desire to socialize, yet enjoyed his time amongst possible victims.

Projecting a facade far from his true nature, he sipped a potent espresso while projecting a calm demeanor- belying the horrific thoughts of murder and torture constantly running through his mind. His thoughts flowed around the depths of his plans, rehashing their anticipated effect on his next victim and feeding off the fear he hoped to cause. The truth was he needed only to glance towards the murder of magpies (a wonderful expression, he chortled) across the room to cement that knowledge, chuckling at his cleverness as he applied that label to the cowering females.

Terror was the only emotion that mattered to the killer and his plans centered on that most desired feeling. His ability to create fear was second nature, as evidenced by the way he continued reaping the rewards from past deeds. It was his plan that as he tightened his area of focus, the local community would come to grips with the reality of impending death-

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intensifying their fears and multiplying his delight. Envisioning his noose of terror, living concurrently in past successes and

future anticipation, he smiled broadly. It was as he intended from the beginning- start far away from home then

slowly bring death and the threat of excruciating pain ever closer, forcing panic on the populace.

These days he spent most of the time between kills in the blank solitude of rest, waking rarely. However, there were nights like this when he felt strong enough to plan, but not to kill, when he ventured out as just another person, friend, or family member.

While doing nothing to satisfy his insatiable hunger, these times allowed him to formulate, target, and waylay his pursuers with false hope and false information. He almost felt sorry that the current day defenders of society needed help, needed guidance, as reflected in their unsteady methods and inability to understand his nature leading them to mistake after mistake. The newspaper on the table in front of him told the story that the FBI and the local police were still only aware of three victims, which meant it was time to educate them in his greatness.

To flame the ashes of horror he so carefully planted, he graciously decided to give them additional clues this night, leading them to another body and its “murderer”. Then he could then sit back to bask in the horror and revel in the deliciously unrivaled scent of fear as it wafted its way over the land.

The woman he chose to frame for his latest murder was unaware of what actually happened. She was undoubtedly confused, unable to come up with any explanation how she found herself alone in the country, far away from home with no memory of her part in anything from that evening.

That would end when the authorities confronted her with the indisputable evidence of her guilt. Unlike previous choices, he did his homework with this one, selecting the woman for her combination of past problems with the law and her current persona of a loving, doting, single mother.

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As part of his evolution as an entity of evil, part of a master plan that knew no end or boundaries, he hoped his plans would increasingly feed his hunger and strengthen him beyond his current limits.

A sardonic leer crossed his face as he imagined the woman’s disbelief when they finally came to drag her away, and the humor of her anticipated plight flashed through him, though humor was not an attribute easily assigned to his character. Still, part of him wished he might someday experience firsthand the incredulity of those arrested for these murders. Who knew? Perhaps their emotions might be as delicious as the terror he consumed to sustain his soul, who knew?

He sighed as he resigned himself to the mere fantasy of that desire. He had to be content with the nourishing fear of current victims, the

memory of past sufferers, and the anticipation of the future. Sitting quietly, he peered at his reflection in the cafe window, questioning

if anyone would ever truly discover him. An element of sadness crept into his psyche, knowing that only after people discovered his true nature could he truly dominate them. In fact giving them clues to his secret was part of the cat-and- mouse game he played.

In the reflection of the mirror-like surface of the storefront, he watched the people around him and slowly concentrated on what the women were anxiously discussing. He saw that they had a newspaper open to the same story he just read, leaving him to smile as he realized they were discussing his work. Listening to their inane banter, he recognized the unmistakable scent of fear mixed with the sensuality of the unknown in the tone of their conversation.

They were repulsed and excited at the same time. That pleased him more, causing him to smile even wider. As he listened, one of the women caught his attention, smiling at his

handsome visage. He returned her smile with his best imitation of personal warmth, though his soul remained blocked from any feelings of that nature.

The woman bought it, even going so far as to blush- a sign he recognized

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as a sexual signal, though he knew nothing of those desires. His feelings of utter disdain for his victims continued to rise, threatening to overshadow his plans with self-serving pride. What he truly needed was for someone in law enforcement to rise near his level, become Holmes to his Moriarty, but he doubted that was possible.

Idiots, he thought derisively. Concentrating again on the news article in front of him, he focused on the sidebar accounts of other famous serial killers. Reading of their exploits, he delighted in his empathic reaction to their seminal achievements, even as part of him dismissed them as poseurs to his greatness. He noted one of those killers was currently in a local prison facility and decided he must pay a visit to see firsthand if there were others truly like him- or if they were mere aberrations or imitations.

Time had come to move on, to advance his plans, so he steadied his soul in anticipation. He locked eyes with the woman at the next table, grinned at the flush of excitement on her face and relished her sudden reaction to an unexpected change in the room.

Drifting away from corporeal consciousness, he heard the women scream as their paper blew off their table, carried by the bone-chilling wind that swept through the room.

A few hours later he found himself once again wide awake and mockingly joyful, driving into the night as he called the police on a cell phone, his voice giving instructions to lead them to his last victim- instructions whose delivery would lead the authorities directly to the person he chose for blame.

It was almost too easy, this game was. Unfortunately, for his victims, it was also too enjoyable to stop.

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Chapter III “How long are you going to let her squirm?” “A little,” replied the leader of the investigation as he watched the accused through the one-way glass of the police interview room. Tom Thurston had many duties as lead investigator of the FBI task force brought in to solve the recent spate of murders in upstate New York, but none could be more satisfying than finding and arresting the guilty party.

However, despite the overwhelming evidence pointing to the perpetrator, he experienced a nagging feeling held that something was else was wrong- something incomprehensibly out of place behind arresting a middle-aged suburban mother for a horrifying murder. The facts surrounding her guilt for this latest in an apparent serial killing spree seemed cut and dry, given her DNA and fingerprints were all over the scene where they found the body with no attempt to hide them. There is the rub, he thought. Any random person of intelligence who committed murder would at least attempt to wipe down the area to remove forensic evidence. However, there was no such effort in this case. Even though his team’s research into the woman’s life indicated reformation from her past, suggesting comfortable and productive life within society, her prior violence was on record- and with it her DNA and fingerprints. She had to know that they would be able to track her down- so the fact that she left clues so blatantly obvious was disturbing. Of course, psychopaths rarely fit into what normal people would call expected behavior, so he resisted pigeonholing her psyche until they had a chance to examine her motivations.

Tom went over the plans for the arrest once more in his mind, trying to pinpoint why his intuition seemed to be screaming a warning of possible mistakes.

His team, along with local law enforcement personnel, surrounded the

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woman’s house just after daybreak. Because of darkness lingering from a large thunderstorm, the lights were on in the woman’s house, illuminating the inside to those watching from without. From his vantage point across the street, the Agent had a direct view inside the house and watched as the woman went through her preparations for the day, making sure her ten-year-old son bundled up tight against the storm while adjusting the backpack on her twelve-year-old daughter.

Scenes that otherwise spoke of love and caring made the Agent cringe. The hell her kids would go through in the all-too-near future was a fact he could not ignore, though he tried his best not to dwell on emotionally draining specifics like that.

The children walked out the front door and down the street, waiting in the rain for their bus. Joined by others, the kids talked and laughed, splashing each other from the puddles, oblivious to the changes this day would bring. Less than a minute later, the bus pulled up, gathered the kids and took off down the street, leaving behind a quiet suburban neighborhood.

“All right people,” he said into his radio, “follow my lead. Alan and I will go inside and give her a chance to answer some questions and come with us quietly. No one is to take any action without my say so.”

Nothing else needed saying- everyone involved was more than happy to let the FBI handle this one, and the quieter, the better, at least in the minds of the local cops.

Lisa Franklin opened the door and invited the agents into her house, her face quizzical as the men introduced themselves. Her heart raced, and her speech quickened as she suddenly realized they were there specifically to question her.

“Is something wrong with my kids?” she asked frantically, her eyes suddenly widening with fear.

“Your children are fine, Mrs. Franklin,” Tom began. “We’re investigating the recent murder of a man named Thomas Foley- perhaps you heard about it?

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We have reason to believe the abduction happened near here, so we’re canvassing the neighborhood to see if anyone saw anything that might help us.” The two agents watched her reactions as the woman opened her door to allow them to come out of the rain. “I saw it on the news last night. Such a horrible thing- so horrible.” She sounded sincere, though Tom knew too well the ability of psychopaths to obfuscate and lie. “How can I help you? I’m afraid I didn’t know the man.”

“Can you tell us where you were on the night of Friday, September 2nd?" Watching her, Tom noticed that her gaze wandered upward and to the

right, indicating to his trained eye that she was attempting to access her visual memories. Almost at once, the woman took on an odd look, one this time of concern mixed with disbelief. “I think on the 2nd… I believe that was the night before I ended up in the ER,” she said, her tone indicating certainty, despite her choice of words.

“Your memory’s correct,” Tom responded. “We checked with the hospital, and they said you showed up around seven a.m. Saturday morning, complaining of a blackout of some kind?”

Concern immediately reflected on Lisa’s face- mixed with confusion that the FBI agent already knew details of her life before she spoke. “That’s right,” she agreed slowly. “I dropped the kids off at my ex’s around seven Friday evening and then drove home. I remember stopping to pick up some homeless guy on the road and the next thing I knew I woke up next to my car out on Route 571, just after daybreak. I have a past history of diabetic attacks from low blood sugar, so I thought it best to get checked out at the hospital.”

“Anything else you remember from that night? Do you remember dropping off your passenger?” asked Tom.

“No, I don’t. It’s all a blank, which is another reason I went to the hospital.”

“Would you mind if we took a look through your car, Mrs. Franklin?” Since the warrant in his pocket gave him the right to turn this house and

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everything in and around it upside down, there was no legal reason for him to gain permission, but feigned politeness was part of his method, part of his way of keeping suspects off balance while he gauged their reactions. His eyes remained locked on the woman as he tried to take the measure of her psyche.

Though some had voiced their doubts regarding his methods, his record of success silenced most critics, allowing him to pursue his job in the way he saw fit. Time would come where the gloves would come off with this suspect, but for now, he played it soft. Lisa’s heart beat faster as she slowly realized there must be a point to their questioning, a point most probably unfavorable to her. She was used to getting the shaft from the law, as evidenced in her mind by the fact that she had only partial custody of her children, despite the fact that her husband repeatedly beat her when they were together. As that thought passed through her mind, she processed a realization that she might need help to prevent these cops from taking advantage of her. It came to her mind that they might be trying to pin something on her despite her innocence, which only worsened her frame of mind.

She had no reason to trust that these strangers were any different from the police who ignored her complaints against her ex- and that distrust cemented her reply.

“I’m getting a bad feeling from your questions,” came her terse reply. “So before you proceed any further, I’d like to contact my lawyer.” She stood up and motioned the Agents to leave. Tom sighed at her comment, disappointed that the woman hadn’t fallen apart and admitted her guilt. Although it was rare for things to fall that way, he always held out hope.

“You can make that request when we get to the local police station, Mrs. Franklin. You are under arrest for the murder of Thomas Foley.” He reached forward with handcuffs pulled from his coat pocket as his assistant grabbed the woman by the shoulders.

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“But I told you- I never met the man! I never laid eyes on him!” As she paused to gauge the situation, her tone was strident and concerned. “You’re making a big mistake!” Her anger ratcheted up, getting the best of her. The only thing she could think of right then was her kids- and how this mix-up might somehow affect her custody arrangement. She started to rant as her Mama-Bear instincts overrode her good sense.

“I’m gonna have my lawyers sue you for false arrest- and then you’ll be sorry.” She spat her threats as she struggled vainly against her restraints. As Tom clicked the handcuffs over the woman’s wrists, he turned her roughly to face him. “Keep up the bravado, Lady. I think we both know that we’ll find proof after we search your car and house.” He held up the search warrant to back up his comments, hoping to gather further information from the woman’s reactions. Fear replaced anger in the woman’s face, reinforcing her feeling of persecution as she realized these men might actually be able to do what they said. Without an alibi and with no memory of that night, she feared someone was framing her. Perhaps something happened; perhaps someone drugged her- who knew? The only thing she knew was that these FBI agents were about to take her to jail and she had to do something. “Please,” she cried. “Listen to me. I don’t know anything about any murder!” Her voice cracked through her tears. “My kids? What about my kids?” The memory of her tone still pulled at his memory as he stood there. Her tone spoke of pain or anticipated pain. It indicated a level of caring he would expect from any good mother… but not from a psychopath. Now, as he watched her sitting alone in the interrogation room, he found himself doubting his own actions. Unless the woman was a damn good actor, the pain for her kids was real, the thoughts behind it genuine. How could a woman who cared so much for her kids perpetrate such a heinous murder?

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Something was missing, and that thought caused him to turn to the woman standing next to him. As their consulting psychiatrist, Holly Daniel not only busied herself reading the reactions of the accused, she also noted Tom’s body language and recognized his conflicting emotions. As a friend and colleague, she suddenly felt the need to offer support to the Agent. “Don’t doubt yourself. You said yourself that all the physical evidence points to her guilt. Do yourself a favor and ease up on your conscience until after my examination. I’ve seen lunatics who can tell look you straight in the eye and tell you that it’s midnight while shading their eyes from the sun- and they’d pass a polygraph test on their answer.” “I hear you, Doc. Normally I might be the first to agree with you, but something smells here, and it ain’t fish!

Holly nodded. “But she has no alibi for the murder- just that odd and very convenient story of a ten-hour blackout. The hospital reports that the blood work up from that night shows no evidence drugs in her system or her having any kind of Diabetic reaction. Her claim seems unlikely.” “Yeah,” Tom replied absentmindedly as if he barely heard the woman.

Through the window, they saw the door to the interview room open and watched the Public Defender enter, motioning toward the observation room to cut any recording or listening devices. Normally they would be able to meet in a separate room, but this police station was cramped and not set up for much in the way of interrogations. This would have to do, so Tom complied with the man’s request, turning off the video and voice recorders. It struck him that if he learned to read lips, he might be able to “listen in” secretly. He knew that was illegal and anything discovered would be inadmissible in court, but he still found himself daydreaming of the ability. The psychiatrist watched Tom’s reactions, thought of trying to continue their talk but decided to let it go for now. “Join me in a cup of coffee?” she asked pleasantly. Tom glanced at the clock on the wall, and noting it was only 11 a.m.,

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shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, but you’re buying,” he responded, suddenly realizing how tired he felt and how good a nice hot cup of caffeine would feel. “Fine,” Holly replied with a smile. “I’ll even shelve the shop talk for a while.” Even though her promise to leave the aspects of these most disturbing cases alone was genuine, she was in full work mode and found herself continuing her assessment of the Agent. The psychological effect of the pressure of high-profile cases on case investigators was intriguing enough that she planned to publish a paper on the subject in the near future- if she could ever find the time.

Before they could even leave the room, however, Tom’s phone buzzed with a new message. As he read it, Holly saw his shoulders slump, and his breathing became noticeably heavier. Bad news, she thought, while noting the anger and frustration building up under the normally calm façade of the Agent. “Everything alright?” she asked pointedly even though she already knew the answer. If he heard her question, he didn’t show it, and instead of answering her, he began to text almost viciously. Holly realized that the message he just received must have contained something awful to cause such a reaction, so she showed her professionalism and personal empathy for the man by remaining silent. One last stab of his finger on his smartphone screen and he was done. Still mute, he walked slowly over to the observation window and scowled as he watched their suspect continue talking to her lawyer. Without looking away, he finally spoke. “They found another victim from a town thirty miles north of here,” he said in a monotone of dismay. “Same M.O…. the victim was tortured and flayed alive.” Holly sidled up next to the Agent and placed her hand on his shoulder. “You think it was her?” she said, nodding toward the suspect in the interview room. “No,” he replied flatly. “The new victim was killed night before last, and

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we know for a fact that she was home that night celebrating the birthday of her oldest kid. No way she did it.” He paused, and Holly noted that his was gripping and re-gripping his fist in apparent rage. “This case is totally screwed up. We keep finding people tortured and murdered… and then we do our jobs and catch the fucking killer dead to right. Then time passes, and another murder happens in the same way but by someone else. It doesn’t make any sense.” He turned away from the observation room and faced the psychiatrist. “Could this be some kind of sicko cult?” Despite having studied the psychology of cults in Grad school, Holly surely didn’t feel like she was any kind of expert, but she was confident enough in her knowledge on the subject that, when combined with her work on this case, she could give an opinion. “If this is a cult, it’s totally different from any I’ve ever heard about. Most cults have charismatic leaders, people who can persuade and alter the train of thoughts of their followers. In cults, members focus on their leaders and display zealous, unquestioning commitments to whatever their focus is.” “Well then this is definitely not the doings of a cult,” replied Tom. “There’s no evidence of any connections between the suspects, no commonalities.” He paused and sighed angrily, speaking rhetorically to himself and the Psychiatrist. “So how the hell are these murders following the same script, down to the fine details? There’s been no leak to the outside world beyond the basics, so there’s no way the news is serving as the pattern. I’m telling you, it’s nuts!” Holly could only shrug in resignation. “Sorry, Tom. I’ve got nothing for you…now.” “Look, Doc, I know you have to get back to New York, but I’m definitely going to need your help. Call you later?” “Absolutely.” She paused as she considered how best to help a good man deal with a horrible situation. Unfortunately, nothing came quickly, and she settled on the old fallback. “Good luck,” she said softly.

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Chapter IV Alice Donahue fought back her tears, barely succeeding before turning slowly back to her responsibility. Facing her duty once again, she turned and steeled herself to the job ahead.

This one hurt, more than anything she had yet faced in her career nearly fifteen years as a police officer. With her subordinates busy roping off the area, making sure that no possible clue was lost through carelessness, she felt an overriding need to project an aura of composure to the others. To her dismay, she felt doomed to fail. Given the victim’s identity, Alice’s feelings of vulnerability and inadequacy were understandable. This was the third time since she’d become Chief of Police where she had to provide a professional assessment of the death of someone she knew personally- but this one hit far too close to home. The other two deaths were from car accidents, which made this one unique. She found herself searching for the fortitude she desperately needed as she struggled to remain in control. Barry Cooling finished closing off the northern side of the site with the yellow tape so familiar to devotees of TV crime drama. She locked gazes with her fellow officer as he walked back, feeling a flame of empathy brought forth by the tears visible in his eyes. Usually stoic, Barry was also a close friend of the victim. Given the fact that the officer’s mother was also a member of the local tribe and raised her son in the shadow of Iroquois traditions, he was understandably upset.

The murder of Sarah Tallhorse would have a far-reaching effect on their town, a close-knit community that boasted a combination of Native American and other long time inhabitants. The sight of Barry’s poignant response ignited Alice’s resolve, giving her emotional strength that surged in response to her compassion. Standing suddenly taller, she called out in a clear, controlled, voice. “Get the path to the highway roped off- the forensic team is on their way, and we’re

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going to need every clue they can find. Barry,” she barked, “radio in a request to have the FBI notified and make a formal request- on my authority- for them to get here as soon as possible. Tell them that I’ll personally call the task force leader when I get back to the station.” Given a job to do, Barry seemed relieved and focused. If only she could feel the same, then maybe she could stop the memories of the dead woman from dominating her thoughts. Alice knew the dangers of dwelling on her personal relationship with her friend Sarah, but that didn’t stop her from daydreaming about the dead woman.

A full-blooded Iroquois woman of dignity, style, intelligence- and an understated sense of humor- the entire community would miss her.

So will I, thought Alice. Her focus once again fell upon the mutilated body in front of her.

Accepting the fact that the corpse before her was the only thing remaining of that previously vibrant soul was heart-rending. Just two weeks earlier she and Sarah sat discussing the latest fall fashions over dinner while their men were deep in their own private conversations about football. This was not just a victim- she was a friend! That thought brought her back to reality, knowing that the next task- notifying Sarah’s husband was next on her agenda. The Tallhorse’s were a strong family, but they would need all their strength, along with the help of the rest of the community, to get past the horror of this murder. The mounting slayings plaguing their County the past six months no longer spared the town she swore to protect. To date the spate of killings bypassed their community, leading folk to hope they were somehow immune, Unfortunately, that hope was about to come crashing down on their collective local psyche, and that possible effect was something her nimble mind considered as she juggled priorities in her thoughts. From what she knew about the ongoing investigations, the FBI supposedly solved each of the previous murders, with the apparent guilty

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parties arrested and awaiting trial. That knowledge failed to comfort her, as it was painfully obvious someone copycatted the previous murders- and in the process killed a good friend. As she thought through the facts, her face flushed with reacquired rage, which felt good, she admitted.

Get mad at the perpetrator; use that emotion to steel her resolve to solve this crime while the horrible, torturous murder screamed out for resolution. Using her growing anger as a crutch to bolster her frayed emotions, she stared again at the exposed body of her friend lying in the gully.

Focusing, her detective skills energized and she noted the wrapping cloth partially covering the corpse. Spread out and around the body almost like a canvas, displaying the horrendous artistry of the killer, the scene before her seemed more staged than real.

She knelt down to study the body closer, careful not to disturb any possible evidence that might be uncovered by the forensics experts. She shuddered one last time at the horror before her and then steeled herself to do her job.

The body lay on a tarp that had been unfolded by the murderer with the apparent purpose of keeping the remains off the bare ground while also serving as a disgusting canvas to serve as a backdrop… almost as if the killer (or killers, she reminded herself) fancied themselves as artists. She leaned forward and noted that despite the fact that Sarah’s skin had been terrifyingly removed over a good percentage of her body, leaving the woman’s muscles and tendons open to the elements, there was very little smell of death.

How odd, she thought. Sarah went missing the night before last, and according to Alice’s best guess died more than 24 hours earlier. That meant this display had been lying out in the open for over a day- and yet the body was amazingly clear of any infestations normally found when a body, especially a body as mutilated as this one, was left out in the open. Flies and maggots would gather around such a corpse, but the air was clear, and there seemed to

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me no insects of any kind permeating the body. Odd indeed, she thought briefly before turning her attention to her basic

assumptions regarding this case’s connection with the other nearby recent murders.

She sensed there was something wrong with her basic assumptions; something that gnawed at her initial belief this was a copycat murder. The skill necessary to perform the evil before her screamed of practiced perfection- not some bumbling attempt of misplaced homage.

Despite her efforts to put on a brave front, she still shuddered as her imagination reviewed once again the torture evidenced by the victim’s body. Against any conscious volition, she imagined Sarah’s long hours of torment while the murderer slowly flayed the skin from her body.

It was almost more than the officer could bear, and her mind skipped to the thought of having to recount this scene to Sarah’s husband, wondering if this horror might also overwhelm the spiritual strength possessed by the proud Iroquois Chief. Alice suddenly looked up, focusing on the distance as her mind raced forward on a stream of intuition. Pride in her own reasoning clashed with the realization of what it meant.

“Of course,” she said aloud. “That’s what was missing!” She knew the FBI searched in vain for a common thread between the murders, something to tie the multiple killers together. Now she had done what they could not- realize a possible source of origin for the ritualistic murders.

She shuddered as she remembered the story she read recently, a story written by Professor Jesse Holmes- a distinguished local anthropologist- a good friend of the Tallhorse clan… and more to the point, her fiancé of over a year.

How she’d missed this connection earlier was a little annoying, given that Jesse’s recently published Native American mythology mirrored the killings in lock-step fashion- from the horrific flaying of the victim’s skin to the oddity of how their bodies were displayed when they were found, then lastly to the

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timing of the murders. Part of her mind flinched at the thought that, upon learning of her

reasoning, others might attempt applying guilt to Jesse, even though she knew there was nothing to that. Jesse would be just another victim- though the only hurt he might suffer was to his good name, not his life. She smiled wryly as her train of thought continued, planning her next steps. She knew that her discovery would bring the focus of the investigation on people she and Jesse knew - at least initially. She was confident she could convince others of the absolute innocence of her beloved Jesse, but she girded herself for the inevitable intense questioning. Breathing deeply, she allowed herself a moment of self-congratulation, having just uncovered the first big clue in her first honest-to-god murder investigation. Despite the reality of loss staring at her in the face, it still felt good and raised her hopes that she might somehow avenge her lost friend.

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Chapter V Weaving in and out of traffic at high speed was never as easy as it seemed

in the movies, not even with her flashers and siren creating space for her cruiser. There were always the inevitable drivers who were zoned out and unaware of their surroundings- little old ladies, teenagers with blaring music, or even those idiots who were too busy talking on their cell phones to recognize her authority. She took silent pleasure in watching each of those individuals freak out as she passed them, knowing that their adrenaline was kicking in out of fear of authority.

Serves them right, she muttered to herself. On top of that, Alice was getting to know the FBI agent in charge of the

investigations into the serial murders that had drawn her and her town into the horrible web of mystery and fear that cast its pall over these cases.

With first impressions out of the way, she settled into a more casual approach to interacting with the obviously interesting investigator. She learned that Tom Thurston was a fifteen-year veteran of the FBI who had his fingerprints on many famous cases she read about in the past.

An impressive man, she thought, and seemingly pleasant enough. She hoped that description would carry through after they made it to New York and tracked down her Fiancée, Jesse, whom she’d unsuccessfully been trying to contact for the past few hours.

No doubt too engrossed in his teaching to bother turning on his phone, she thought ruefully. Maybe after this incident, he might finally take her advice and at least have his phone on in case of emergencies.

“Too bad we’re in such a rush,” said Tom with a smile as he continued to text one of his fellow Agents. “I’d love to see you write some tickets- those cell phone idiots really piss me off!”

Alice chuckled. “I know what you mean. It’s actually one of my guilty little pleasures to head out on patrol and teach them a lesson now and then… not that it helps. They wait for me to leave, and then they get right back to their

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phone calls.” As she spoke, she tried to reconcile her desire to learn more about the serial killings from the Agent with the reticence she felt about their current plan to surprise her Fiancée.

Perhaps Agent Thurston sensed her internal struggles, but for whatever the reason, he jumped back into the subject weighing on all their minds, holding up his phone as if it were some new piece of evidence.

“I’ve had my team working your angle since we spoke this morning and they’ve come across some very interesting things.”

“Such as?” asked Alice hopefully. “Such as interviewing the operator of an Internet website that seems a

likely source of motivation for these killings… a site that describes the methods and timing used in the murders. The descriptions seem to mirror our cases and are eerily similar to what your Fiancée published in his paper. So similar that I am really looking forward to having your Fiance…”

“Jesse!” interrupted Alice somewhat tersely, reminding the Agent of the personal bond she held for the man they were heading to question.

“Of course. I’d love to hear how… Jesse,” Tom replied, emphasizing the name to diffuse the Policewoman’s obvious angst surrounding their upcoming interview. “How Jesse feels about his anthropology study seemingly being used as a template for murder, along with his thoughts on why it also appears that one of his students is our prime suspect.” His tone, while not accusatory, still held enough skepticism to keep Alice uneasy.

Once again, she felt that terrible tug of loyalty to her lover versus the seeming reality of the horror she witnessed this morning- all multiplied by the terror that the rest of the County had been suffering through these past few months.

She pushed down further on the gas pedal, needing to get to Jesse just as quickly as possible and hopefully find some answers together that could assure the FBI that neither she nor Jesse was possibly involved.

“Your people already talked to the website operator? What’d he have to

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say?” “It turns out that he’s an Anthropology wannabe who happens to have a

thunderous hard-on for Jesse’s work. He was even a student at NYU and took one of the Professor’s courses a few years back. The agent who interviewed him told me that he’s a few cards short if you catch my drift, but utterly incapable of either the crimes we’re investigating or masterminding any kind of cultish serial killings. We think that he’s likely just another whack-a-doodle who’s lining up for one of those 15 minutes of fame we all hear about. I mean, once the media gets a hold of this, his face will be on the covers of every rag in the supermarket checkout line.”

“Damn,” swore Alice. “I’m not only on my way to inform my Fiancée about the death of one of his closest friends, but we’re also going to be putting his life’s work under the microscope of public scrutiny.”

“Try to look on the bright side. With all the publicity that will arise from the media spotlight on the case… who knows, maybe it can work in his favor. Like they always say, even bad publicity can be good.”

Alice just grunted. There was no doubt in her mind that Jesse would hate the upcoming glare of the spotlight. He was an academician, not a politician or an entertainer.

There was no way he would be pleased. Tom watched her reactions intently, using them to get a further read on

the newest entry into his case and calculating just how he could get the most out of her.

His initial assessment was that the Officer seemed intelligent, focused, and professional… with a healthy dose of concern for her constituents. Those traits boded well for his investigation and gave him hope that she could help.

The fact that she was young and pretty was an added bonus, though the realization that her Fiancée might somehow be involved was a scary thought. He hoped, for her sake, that the man turned out to be just another in a growing line of people used and discarded by these killers.

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Chapter VI Even though the Anthropology course was a guilty pleasure for many of

the NYU students, still the auditorium held only a fraction of its seating capacity on this Thursday evening. Spread out across the first twenty rows, the enrolled students sat amongst their guests from the Film School who were present for the “Creative Responses” which were standard issue for the Professor’s course in Native American Realism.

“We have a real treat in store for us today,” promised Professor Jesse Holmes, looking out from his podium across the students gathered in the dark of the auditorium.

“Aidan Miller, in conjunction with our friends from the Film School, has produced what he claims is a “Grand Opus” on our recent studies.” He smiled at some unknown joke while gesturing to the student in question.

Aidan stood at the acknowledgment of the crowd and looked expectantly at his teacher.

“Hit it,” suggested the Professor. Aidan leaned over and pressed a button on the control panel at the front of the stage. The film began as the house lights dimmed even further into darkness.

On a large screen came the opening credits, while a musical score played lightly over the speakers. After thirty seconds or so of relative quiet, the silence of the auditorium was shaken by a loud thunderclap, taking the audience by surprise and waking a few of the less attentive students from their ordinary lethargy.

Jesse smiled as he watched, wondering just what they might be in store for. Aidan was not a great student, but he was a real character- and that led the Professor to hope for something memorable.

The movie showed a roiling sky, with clouds rushing by before giving way to the bright sun of day shining on a representation of an ancient Iroquois encampment. The camera swung in on the life of the village, moving through the openings between the longhouse and various tents. He was amazed at the

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seeming reality of this amateur presentation and realized Aidan would be pleased with his grade.

A narrative voice took over, and Jesse realized the words came from his latest publication, not verbatim, but close enough.

“In the past dwelt Wise Cloud, a brave and powerful Healer, a man who helped rule his tribe at the side of his brother, the Chief of their village. With honor and love, Wise Cloud married Laughing Sky, the most beautiful woman their people had ever known. For many long years, they lived in peace and harmony with all. Only one thing marred the perfection of their love, as they were denied the joy of children by the Great Spirit.”

Jesse watched the scene play out and recognized that the Actress playing

Laughing Sky was none other than Aidan’s girlfriend, Samantha. She certainly had the looks to carry off a representation of beauty, although the Professor had to admit a little dismay at his realization that the players in this movie were not Native Americans, though Samantha’s Middle Eastern heritage gave her skin a color that might have passed for such. He shook his head to dispel those negative reactions, knowing that the student had to “make do” with the assets they had.

Jesse also chuckled silently at his realization that the choice to use narration was undoubtedly a necessity, given Samantha’s heavy Brooklyn accent.

Jesse smiled as the narrator continued.

“One day Wise Cloud, in pain for his lack of children, challenged the Great Spirit, threatening to turn his back on their people were he not granted a child.”

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“But the Great Spirit ignored his challenge and the years continued to pass. Laughing Sky grew older and the time of her ability to bear a child drew nearer to an end. In despair for the Great Spirit’s seeming indifference, the Medicine Man turned to his lore and called upon other spirits to aid them.”

In anger and misery, Wise Cloud called upon the lesser brother of the Great Spirit, the God of Fear known as Tawiscara, a spirit whose evil surpassed even his great power. The Spirit tricked the Healer into bringing the demon’s wickedness into the living dimension of the Earth, promising the Healer a son in payment.

Using his knowledge of the Spirit World, Wise Cloud created a storm of great wind, a blizzard of such strength that it breached the very walls protecting Earth from the Spirit World. The storm allowed Tawiscara to fly from the frozen depths of the lifeless void into the vessel of the Earth and Sky upon the very wind the medicine man created. Henceforth, the soul-freezing gale that bore Tawiscara to Earth sprung forth whenever the demon moved upon the earth, serving to warn those who knew his reality.

The sounds representing the storm in the film were authentic enough, but

Jesse quickly realized that something else was affecting his senses and he looked around to see if anyone else felt the strong sensation of wind blowing through the auditorium. Suddenly it came to him- Aidan had somehow rigged air-conditioning fans in the auditorium to turn on and blow across the audience. On top of that, he also felt a general feeling of moisture in the breeze, creating a bodily reaction of goose bumps to the sights and sounds of the film. As the lightning flashed in the movie, Jesse smelled the unmistakable odor of ozone wafted through the air.

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Aidan and his associate from the film school had outdone themselves, somehow incorporating other senses than sight and sound. He caught the student’s eyes, gave him a smile and a thumbs-up as he received the same response from his student.

Brought back to focus on the movie by the continued narration, Jesse continued his enjoyment of this intriguing short film.

“Having no physical body on Earth, Tawiscara took control of Wise Cloud, possessing him while maintaining the body but devouring the man’s soul. In accomplishing this feat, the Spirit’s power diminished, though it remained nearly immortal. No one in the tribe, not even Laughing Sky, knew that Wise Cloud was now with the Great Spirit and Tawiscara controlled the healer’s body.”

“Desiring above all else power over others while needing to feed his wickedness, Tawiscara devised new ways to nourish his evil and maintain his supremacy over the mortals he now lived amongst. Employing the give and take between the Natural and Supernatural, Good and Evil, Tawiscara bargained with the powers of Nature and the fabric of reality in order to gain the abilities he required.

By relinquishing his claim to immortality, he bartered for the ability of his spirit to leave the body of the possessed Healer, if only for a short time. During the nights of a full moon, his spirit was empowered to roam the land, free to occupy the body of any mortal he chose while feasting on the fears of others

This power was only his during the periods of the full moon and in the darkness reminiscent of the void during those times. In the beginning, the demon merely caused mischief, creating havoc with the bodies he controlled, but he soon tired of merely playing with them

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and instead devised a way to feed on their souls by murdering his victims and consuming their fears

Thus the full moon, once revered as the hunting moon, became feared in their lore as the Killing Moon.”

The spectacle of a monstrous new moon filled the screen, and the wails of

wolves over the musical score seemed to inspire dread.

“As the evil spirit beset others with terror, he found that his

powers grew and his insatiable thirst for wickedness grew even more demanding. Tawiscara experimented with new ways to elicit fear, finally choosing a singularly torturous method of killing innocent victims.

At each full moon, the spirit of Tawiscara chose a Villager to possess. While in the newly possessed body, he would kidnap yet another, using a sleeping powder to render that tribesperson unconscious. Using the great bodily strength imbued by Tawiscara’s evil, the possessed tribesperson carried the unconscious bodies to a stone altar, where the drugged and paralyzed victims were bound at the head, hands, feet, and waist.”

Jesse recognized the young man playing the victim in the film as another

NYU student, not someone from his class, but someone he had seen around campus. The teenager was most likely a wannabe actor from the film school since he pulled off the scene in a most convincing manner. Terror seemed to surround the character on the screen, gagged and struggling to escape from the bonds that held him.

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“Upon regaining consciousness, the victim suffered the horror and fear of being skinned alive by the spirit’s possessed body.”

The Professor sighed with relief as Aidan’s movie reflected the killings

mostly with just sounds and a few gratuitous shots of blood splattering across the rock face of a cave. That was plenty for Jesse’s taste, since just hearing the screams of the actor alone brought more than enough images to his mind.

“Feasting off the fear of the dying victim, Tawiscara’s powers increased. After each victim died, Tawiscara carried the body far away from the secret altar, thus ensuring that some time would pass before its discovery. The demon would then leave his possessed body and return before daybreak to the body of the Medicine Man. In the guise of Wise Cloud, the evil spirit would then lead their warriors to not only find the dead tribesman but also hunt down the individual whose possessed body the demon used to commit the murder.”

“Tawiscara continued to revel in the pain and suffering he caused, bleeding the tribe of many of its greatest members. However, pride combined with a desire to keep the strongest adversaries alive to suffer the longest prevented the demon from using his powers to kill the Chief. Thus, the evil spirit’s own desires led him to delay killing the one person who had the power and knowledge to destroy him.”

The short film ended with the evil spirit, in the guise of the Medicine

Man, facing off with the Great Chieftain- and then the credits rolled. To call the ending anticlimactic was an understatement, but Jesse realized that the movie stayed true to his own incomplete translations.

He walked over to Aidan, who stood there basking in the appreciative

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cheers from the audience. “Great job… and you even left us wanting more!” “I wanted to stay true to the story, Professor,” the student explained

quickly. “And since your translations are unfinished, I thought it best to end the film at this point- at least for now. Once you excavate the site completely, I’m sure you’ll discover the ending to the story so I can complete the film.”

“Well all I can say,” stated Jesse loud enough for all to hear “is that you’ve outdone yourself.” He turned to face the audience. “What do you think?” he asked expectantly. “Is this film deserving of an A for a final grade?”

Another roar of applause said it all, leaving Aidan all smiles as he took it in.

“So, how can I follow an act like that?” asked Jesse good-naturedly. Aa voice from the crowd answered him loudly despite the question being

rhetorical. “Maybe you can explain how any culture that would take the trouble to

write down a tale such as this could be as advanced as you still profess.” The tone of the student’s voice was just short of belligerent.

Staring out over the audience, the spotlight stopped the Professor from seeing who made the remarks, but he recognized the voice and went on the offensive. “Have you taken a good look at what Hollywood spits out every year?” he said sarcastically. “The Iroquois were a spiritual people, living their lives in concert with nature, attributing many natural occurrences to spirits and gods. However, even given their predilection to mysticism, their medicine men had an amazing store of real-world cures for whatever afflictions they encountered.”

The same voice from the audience interrupted. “Then how do you reconcile the very translations used in Aidan’s film with your contention their level of medical knowledge was in some ways greater than their contemporaries in Europe, Asia, and Africa? Your story seems to indicate that some of the Medicine Men practiced a type of vampirism as a cure for common ailments!”

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The light from the overhead projector prevented the lecturer from being able to focus in on the student raising the question. Peering out through squinted eyes against the light of the overhead projector, Jesse Holmes, Ph.D., faced the general direction of the questioner, finally zeroing on the student.

“That’s Mr. Pool, isn’t it? If you’re really intent on an A in my course, young man, you should make sure you actually read my writings- and understand them- before trying to cite them in an argument with me.”

Mike Pool returned to his seat, thankful that the reduced lighting in the auditorium made it unlikely anyone would notice that his face turned beet red under the scorn of Professor Holmes’ voice.

The teacher walked in front of the projector, between the audience and the machine, leaning back against the apparatus in a pose of comfort. His voice lost its contentious air and came across more conversationally “Actually, Mike, I can see how you might you came to your conclusion, but the story about the practice of “vampirism” was only in the context of the legends and myths passed down from their ancestors. The point I was trying to make in my book was that the stories passed down through generations of Medicine Men were unchanging. My contention is that the intellectuals of their society must have used written language more frequently than most anthropologists believe, otherwise those stories would have changed through the generations, much like the game of telephone you used to play when you were kids.”

Emboldened by the change in his teacher’s tone, Mike decided to press his point. “But if that’s true, then why haven’t we found more examples of their written language?”

“From what I found in my three excavation sites in upstate New York and Canada, I think the reason is simply that the Iroquois tended to write on materials like buckskin and tree bark- they seemed to care little for permanency in writing. We have been able to trace some cave paintings and such, but it was rare that they did any written work on anything lasting. Perhaps as each generation was taught the teachings of the past, they wrote them on something

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that would last only to the next generation.” As the professor spoke, the lights in the auditorium slowly came back on.

Another student on the other side of the auditorium spoke out. “I thought the Iroquois written language was a rather late development. Our own textbook maintains that the written forms of their language came only after the influence of Europeans.”

“True, Jon,” replied the professor to the second student. “What people refer to as Post-Revolutionary War Iroquois writing is a representation of their speech springing from tribal interaction with Europeans. What I was referring to is a recent discovery made in my excavations. I found evidence of a symbolic language that matches closely with our knowledge of the spoken language. I’m still waiting for a chemical dating of my find, but I believe it dates back over 700 years.”

The second student looked properly impressed with the Professor’s news. “Did you find any writing about the Iroquois Constitution or Confederacy?”

“Not to date, no. Maybe my next excavations will show something along those lines,” he said, pausing with a faraway look in his eyes, “At least I can dream, can’t I?” The Professor smiled broadly, as the clock in the quad rang the two o’clock signal, indicating the end of this class. “We’ll take this up next time,” he spoke over the din of the students preparing to leave. “Remember that the mid-term papers are due in my office by noon on Wednesday.”

Jesse turned back to the projector, turning off the power and proceeding to put his papers in order.

“So,” said a voice from behind him. “Do you think the locals will be pleased if you start expanding your dig?”

Jesse turned with a smile to see a uniformed woman standing only a few yards away. “Chief Donahue, what a pleasant surprise.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed as she tried to determine the tone of the Professor’s voice. “I hope you feel that way later,” she said solemnly, leaving the Professor a little flummoxed as he leaned over to give her a kiss.

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The hoots and whistles from his students caused Jesse to gaze out over the kids remaining and scold them with a look. “She’s my fiancée, you immature idiots,” he said with an amplified chuckle. “Now get out of here before I dock you all a grade or two.” He turned back to Alice while cocking his hand towards the audience still milling about in the auditorium. “Sophomores,” he mocked loudly.

The students returned his jibe with laughter, yet also took him at his word, leaving the auditorium in haste. They liked their teacher but also knew his penchant for applying some very odd grading techniques. None of them wanted to risk his being serious about the drop in grades.

Jesse turned his attention back to Alice Donahue, Police Chief of the village of Beorning, NY… and the future Mrs. Professor Holmes. Her brilliant green eyes held sway over his emotions, rekindling the intense physical attraction he held for his woman, yet her body language warned him that she was not in the mood.

“I thought I wouldn’t see you for another couple of weeks, doll,” he murmured quietly, trying to evoke a more pleasant reaction from Alice. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I can’t get enough of you, you know!”

Alice slapped him on the arm in mock annoyance. “Keep your mind out of the gutter, mister. I’m here on official business.” Her voice hardened as she spoke those last words, eliciting a sense of extreme worry in Jesse.

Despite the realization that this did not seem to be a boyfriend/girlfriend meeting, he persisted in trying to lighten the mood. “Official business in New York City? I’m sure the old crowd at Pete’s Bar would have a field day with that announcement.”

“It is official business- and you can blame me,” said a man walking up behind Alice, startling Jesse. In his excitement at seeing his fiancée, he missed the elephant in the room but recovered quickly enough to assess the stranger. Standing tall and wearing a freshly pressed suit, the man carried himself in a way to give off an air of authority, confidence, and command.

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Taking the steps up the side of the stage two at a time, the man walked quickly to greet Jesse, sticking his hand out as he approached. “Sorry to break in on you like this, Professor, but Alice thought it best we do this in person, rather than over the phone. I’m Special Agent Tom Thurston of the FBI,” he said, showing his badge out of habit. “And I have the unpleasant duty of informing you that one of your graduate students is currently being detained for questioning on suspicion of murder.”

Jesse stood, shaking the offered hand of greeting from the Agent, yet wearing a look that was a mixture of confusion and concern. The fact that Alice was also here, in uniform, implied a serious situation. As a rule, she was not a practical joker, so the chance she meant this exchange to be funny was extremely small.

This was real. “A student of mine? Who?” “Beth Ryerson.” “The hell!” he exclaimed sharply. “Beth is no killer! A little strange,

maybe, but there’s no way she’d ever hurt anyone!” The Agent held up his hands defensively. “Look, I realize this needs some

explanation. Can we talk somewhere in private, just the three of us? I can explain things better and also ask a few questions about the suspect.”

Jesse nodded his assent, quickly gathered the rest of his class notes and led the others to his office.

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Chapter VII “So what could possibly lead you to think Beth might be involved in a

murder?” asked Jesse, dropping his materials on his desk and motioning the others to sit. His tone was almost condescending, belying his conviction of doubt that his student might be guilty.

Sensing his mood, and not wishing her fiancée to go off on one of his infamous tangents, Alice jumped in before the FBI agent could respond. “A few days ago, in fact the day after you left to come back and finish up the semester, Sarah Tallhorse went missing.”

The color drained from Jesse’s face, and his eyes blinked in disbelief. “Sarah’s missing? Why didn’t you call me?”

“It all happened so fast, Jesse,” her voice trembled as she spoke those horrible words; “… she was murdered.”

Jesse’s body went rigid in his chair. “My God!” he said, his voice wincing in pain. “You should have called me.”

The plaintive yet accusatory tone in his voice hurt Alice, and it showed. “Look- when she went missing we hoped she was just off hiking by herself. You know how she was, one of the last true outdoors-people, camping on her own from time to time. Ethan called me panicked one day that he came home from giving a speech and she was gone.”

“We initially discounted Ethan’s complaints that she never went hiking without telling him, even if he was out of town on business, but he insisted that something was amiss because they were supposed to go to lunch with his Father, and she wouldn’t have missed it. He also claimed that none of Sarah’s gear was missing, so the thought that she might have gone camping was unlikely. He was so insistent that I pulled together a search for her.”

Jesse shook his head, and the FBI agent noticed that he seemed to be growing angrier by the second. “Again…you didn’t think to call me?”

Alice’s eyes were glistening now with tears previously denied, but she ignored his question and continued. “Normally we wouldn’t search at night, but

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with the full moon giving us light, we searched through the night. Around 3 a.m. this morning we found her body in the woods about 15 miles north of town in the mountains. Too far to hike without provisions… and since she didn’t drive, she must have been taken there by someone.”

“How’d she die?” asked Jesse somberly, noting that this seemingly obvious question had a marked effect on his fiancée, increasing the discomfort already obvious in her body language.

Tom waited for Alice to continue, but her reticence was clear, leaving him the unpleasant task of describing the death. “Remember those murders up by the Canadian border a few months back?”

“Where the victims were skinned alive? I heard they caught those creeps.” He looked intently at Alice, looking for some guidance.

The FBI agent nodded his head. “You heard right. My team tracked them down, and we currently have two men and a woman in jail for four identical murders, but we have yet to connect the individual killers to each other. Since identical methods were used in the murders it’s been assumed they were either working together- or the later killers did an incredible job of copycatting.”

“What do those cases have to do with Sarah?” The question came across as forced, as Jesse had already gleaned the obvious, painful, answer.

While Alice paused, Tom spoke calmly, yet forcefully. “Your friend was tortured, plain and simple. Gruesome, painful torture, leading to death.”

Alice shuddered, remembering her first vision of the woman’s dead body. “Her skin was carved off her body while she was still alive.” Despite her experience, the stern woman succumbed to the terror of what she described, her voice wavering as she remembered the sight.

“Jesus Christ,” Jesse groaned. Despite his own feelings of horror, he wrapped a big arm around Alice to show his support while addressing the FBI agent. “What does all this have to do with Beth?”

“The forensics team was able to get a good read on exactly when Sarah was killed- and how. She died the night after you left town to come back here.

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Her body was found wrapped up in a sweater that two sets of blood on it- Sarah’s and perhaps that of the killer.”

“Well, then it couldn’t have been Beth. She came back with my other graduate assistants the same day I did.”

“No she didn’t,” responded Alice. “Her car had some engine trouble, and she was stuck in town until noon the next day. I saw her on Tuesday morning as she was leaving Ed’s Auto- I even talked to her briefly. In retrospect, I realize now that she was acting oddly. She looked and talked as if she hadn’t slept a wink the night before. I didn’t give it any thought until I realized that the sweater found at the scene belonged to Beth- I recognized the monogram.”

“Anyone could have placed an article of clothing at the scene. Whoever killed Sarah must have put it there to throw suspicion toward Beth. Any other evidence?” Jesse’s voice was troubled as he tried to cope with the onslaught of bad news. “Surely you must have other suspects because I can flat out you that Beth is incapable of murder.”

Tom took over. “We’re still searching for links between these murders, and we’re taking the time to be thorough. It’s a well-established fact that most murderers know their victim, so we looked at an expanding circle of acquaintances, considering everybody who knew the deceased. We considered her husband Ethan but quickly established his alibi as rock solid for not only this murder but also most of the others. Next, we extended our sphere of possibilities to family and friends- I even looked into you- but you seem okay,” he smiled in spite of the seriousness of their conversation. “When Alice told us about seeing Beth the morning after Sarah went missing, and putting together the sweater and the monogram, it only made sense to bring her in for questioning.”

“We typed the other blood on the sweater as AB negative, which less than one percent of the population has. We know that Beth also has AB negative. We’ll know for certain after a DNA analysis.”

“Sounds like you’ve already made up your mind.”

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“Look, Professor- we’re the good guys. We don’t put anyone away who isn’t guilty, but the facts so far are pointed in her direction.”

“You’re certain?” “Not yet, no. We can’t be 100% sure until after we question her and

receive the results from the DNA test. But if it turns out to be her blood, unless she has a really good explanation, she’s our best bet.”

“I’ll take your word or it, at least until I can talk to her myself,” said Jesse. He paused as he looked the at the FBI agent questioningly “You guys really think Sarah’s murder may be connected to the others?”

Agent Thurston leaned over the desk pulling out a map from his briefcase. As the agent spread the map on the Professor’s desk, Jesse noticed it was marked up with a number of red splotches. Pulling out a felt-tipped pen, the Agent drew a circle around Alice’s town- and coincidentally around his archeological dig. The circle surrounded, Jesse noted, each of the marks on the map.

Part of Thurston’s training as an FBI field investigator was in reading the reactions of others and right now Tom saw something in the way Jesse reacted. Despite the man’s obvious annoyance finding out about the murder of an apparent friend, the Professor’s body language also spoke of newly gained, pertinent knowledge, which told the agent that his first impression of Jesse was spot on- this was a very intelligent man whose insights might be useful in their investigation.

Jesse looked up from the map and locked eyes with Tom. “I assume you’re trying to make a point, or are you just shilling for the Auto Club?”

Tom noted the scorn and cynicism in the man’s voice, but Alice forewarned him about her Fiancé’s predilection towards sarcasm, and thus it failed to annoy him.

The fact was, Tom thought, I like this man. In dealing with potential witnesses or sources of information, he would

take a competent wiseguy over a boring one every time. It made the drudgery

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of his work easier to handle which usually meant that he could solve crimes quicker.

“The FBI comes in cases like these only when local officials ask for help. The State Police brought us in after the third murder. While we weren’t in time to stop the others, we were able to gather enough evidence to track down the killers in both those murders and arrest them.”

“Having arrested suspects- whose guilt seems cemented by hard, physical evidence- led us to believe we succeeded in stopping the killings. It appeared we’d done the job perfectly because nearly two months went by without a killing, until the day before the Tallhorse murder.”

“Wow- two whole months without a murder- you guys must be exhausted from patting yourselves on the back!”

This time his derision caused the agent to flinch with irritation, leading Alice to step in and admonish her fiancée.

“Once more, sans sarcasm,” she ordered. Jesse’s body language showed he received the message. “Sorry,” he said apologetically, smiling briefly at Alice. “No offense. The reason I mentioned the two-month gap was that each of

the first four murders occurred almost exactly one month apart,” he said, holding up one finger to make his point. “And each murder occurred at the height of the full moon.”

“Of course we never went public with our inside jokes, but my team started calling these the werewolf murders. Anyhow, we caught the perp in the third murder, the first copycat, just a few days after the fourth murder. At first, we assumed she also killed the fourth victim.”

“I recall from the papers she hadn’t.” “True, but luckily for us, we were able to track the fourth killer. It’s all

very involved with two members of the same church, apparently independently, committing copycat murders exactly one month apart. Again, since the evidence screams the guilt of those in custody, we assumed the spree was

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over.” “But it wasn’t,” interjected Alice, her voice back to her normal

commanding tones. “The day after Sarah went missing, the body of a man named Foley was found killed in identical fashion. His date of death puts it at exactly one month after the fourth murder, about one month before Sarah’s- which give us five consecutive murders taking place at consecutive full moons.” She stopped when she noticed the incredulous look on her fiancée’s face. “Now you can see why I wanted Tom to talk to you- it’s as if a group of people read your translation and imitated it.”

“Like she said,” agreed Tom. “My team returned from Washington after Foley’s body was discovered and then the Tallhorse murder came up. That’s when Alice made the connection between your translations and the killer’s methodology and gave me a call.”

“So you really think all these murders were committed using my story as a foundation?”

“It’s a possibility I can’t dismiss. Despite my belief that the people in custody are likely guilty of the murders, they’re accused of, and even though we can’t find anything to link those killers together, there’s still an indelible pattern, something eerily similar between the killings that screams to a group working together.”

“Like a cult of some kind?” asked Jesse. “We’ve considered that given the ritualistic methods used. Each murderer

used an identical form of torture- removing large portions of the victim skin and flaying them while they were still alive. The medical examiner estimates it probably took hours for them to die. Also, the victims were bound in identical manners- something that was not public knowledge. Add to that the fact that the period between murders corresponds to the time between full moons… it all seems eerily similar to how Alice described your translations. For individuals to chance upon the same methods without a common bond is unlikely. Given our inability to link the first killer with the next two through any social network, we

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think it might have been the publication of your discovery that lit the psychological fuse for these psychos. We’re looking into the possibility that the murderers somehow met on the Internet but so far nothing!”

Jesse’s head remained slumped in disbelief. “So I’m to blame?” the Professor’s voice tinged with annoyance.

“No! All you did was publish an academic paper on some creepy practices of some local tribe centuries ago. Nobody faults you for that.”

“Don’t fall into the same trap as my students,” interrupted Jesse. “The translation is a story of a legendary Medicine Man who may or may not have performed such acts- after all, it’s just legend. In no way was that type of sacrifice a staple of Iroquois traditions. They were an extremely civilized tribe, in many ways much more civilized than the Europeans who eventually forced them from their lands.” He now sounded very much the frustrated Professor, trying his hardest hammer home his message to some not-too-bright student.

“I’m not uneducated, Professor,” replied Thurston tersely, “and I do understand what you’re saying. However, the fact remains that the description of the killings in your story mirrors what we found on the victims as if the murderers were mimicking the smallest details described in your paper. You’d be surprised at the weird things that set some people off. Maybe these killers were on the edge, and the story just gave them a push.”

“All of them?” “I have to admit that it seems unlikely,” said the Agent. “The guy arrested

for the first two murders was a homeless schizophrenic. He dumped the first body deep in the woods where some hunters found it about three weeks after the killing. By then any scent trail for the dogs to follow had gone cold.”

“The Police caught a lucky break after the second murder and found the body within a day of the killing. Using search dogs, they were able to track down the killer. He was still wearing bloodstained clothing- including blood from both victims. They had him dead to rights.”

“Did he say anything about my research?” asked Jesse.

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“No- and it’d be a pretty big stretch to imagine that guy reading anything off the Internet. The man is a barely functioning schizophrenic who slipped through the cracks in the mental health system. To date, he’s the only one who has admitted to the killings- claims he heard voices that made him do it. With the blood evidence and the confession, the State Police fully believed the case solved.”

“But then came the third killing?” “Yeah! We think that after we caught the homeless guy, the resulting

publicity probably acted as the catalyst for copycat murders. Some Websites about the killings popped up after the first murder, and a few of them played up your translations. We think one of them might be the source of ideas for the copycat killers- and God help us if somebody puts your student’s movie on the Web.”

“God I hope not,” prayed Jesse aloud. “The only thing I did was to translate writings uncovered at my Dig.” His face spoke of embarrassment and an overriding desire to distance himself from the whole subject. “I feel like crawling into a hole.”

“I can understand you may want to distance yourself from all this, Professor. However, after watching your student’s little movie and reading some of the Internet postings, I’d appreciate you giving me your own take on the story in your translations. If the killers are really using it as a basis, any detail may help me.”

“It’s like what you saw in my student’s little movie. It’s a Faustian tale of a powerful Shaman, a Medicine Man who took a wrong path in his quest for knowledge, conspiring with an evil spirit who used his killing methods to gain immortality and power.”

“Immortality like in the Fountain of Youth?” “Kind of- but more like Dracula. The story from the translation was that

the Vampire-Like spirit fed on the fears of his victims to stay young and powerful. Since I published that first paper, I was able to finalize the translation

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of the entire text thus far uncovered. In fact, I’ve got it printed out for use in my next lecture.”

“Could I see it?” asked the Agent. “Absolutely,” replied Jesse, reaching into his file cabinet, pulling out a

stapled group of papers and handing it to the Agent. Tom flipped through the sheets, nodding his head with relief that there

were only a few pages. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take this with me and read on the way back to Beorning with you and Alice.”

“Huh?” responded Jesse, looking wonderingly at his fiancée. Alice looked sheepishly back. “I told Tom you’d likely be able to come

back with us today, to help us make sense of the apparent connection with Beth and your story. You told me the other day that you only had two more classes to teach before the mid-term break, so I just thought…”

Alice’s charm and allure came through strongly to Jesse, who smiled and realized she was right. All he had to do was arrange for one of his graduate assistants to take over for Thursday’s class, and he would be free for the next ten days. “Of course I’d be coming back even without the specter of Beth’s involvement- Ethan’s going to need all the support he can get. I can call Sam Wilson and arrange for him to take over for Thursday’s lecture- I have it all prepared, so it should be no problem. I was going to hitch a ride up to your place with him Friday night anyway since he’s agreed to help me on the excavation next weekend. So it’s settled. I’ll go with you guys, and Sam will just have to bear the ride up alone on Friday.”

“That’s great, Professor,” remarked the Agent. “I assume you need some time to go pack, so why don’t we meet back here in two hours? I have to pay a visit to find out how the questioning of the suspect is going.”

“I’d like to tag along,” replied Jesse. “I feel kind of responsible since she is a member of my graduate team.”

“Sorry, no. Maybe when we come back, but for now you’ll have to wait until her interrogation is completed.”

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“I’ll go with Tom,” said Alice. “After all, it’s my case, from my jurisdiction, and I can look out for your interests without stepping on the FBI’s toes. See you in a couple,” she finished, kissing Jesse lightly on the cheek before leaving with the FBI Agent.

Jesse nodded his acquiescence, gathered his lecture materials and followed them out.

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Chapter VIII Only a half-hour out of the city an uneasy silence gripped the car. Jesse

fumed as he sat, still angry with Alice for not calling him immediately when Sarah went missing and increasingly irate at the continued contention that his own graduate assistant was involved.

On top of that, the theory that the killer used a story he wrote as a paradigm for murder created understandable tension in the Professor.

Alice knew Jesse well enough to let him be, and the FBI agent was sufficiently proficient at reading emotions in others to notice the same signals to stay silent for now, leaving time for Tom to read the translated text from the Professor.

As he read, he realized that the Professor had not just translated ancient writings; he novelized the story to make it readable in English and made for an interesting tale. Perusing the writings, Tom realized that they were almost word for word the same as the movie he watched earlier. He scanned slowly through the pages until he reached the point where the movie ended.

The evil spirit in the guise of the Medicine Man continued his onslaught for many moons, choosing his victims even as he lived amongst them. As time passed, though, Laughing Sky began to question the changes she noticed in her husband. She eventually summoned enough courage to approach the Chief with her doubts, convincing him that something was different in the man she swore to love.

The Chief listened to her doubts and felt the power of the Great Spirit welling within him, warning him that evil was afoot in their village. The two hatched a plan to watch over her husband at the coming of the next full moon, knowing that even the Great Spirit could not save them if they failed to act against the evil in their midst.

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Their watch showed nothing at the next full moon. Wise Cloud slept the entire night, and yet another warrior was missing at daybreak. With dread and fear coursing through them all, the village searched the woods, eventually finding the body of the missing warrior, which in turn led to the hunt for the killer.

“Upon discovering the evidence that pointed to the killer, the villagers began calling the time of these murders The Killing Moon.”

“The killing moon, huh? With two deaths for every full moon, that is one

nasty, tricky, demon. First the victim and then the poor sap whose body he used to commit the murder.” said Tom with a wry smile. The Professor ignored his comment and continued staring at the passing scenery while the Agent continued. “Is this a direct translation?”

“No,” said Jesse. “I waxed poetic hoping for a movie deal.” The sarcastic tone was nearly a sneer and cut through the air like a knife.

Ignoring the man’s attitude, Tom pointed to the last of the pages in his hand. “How does it end?”

Still keeping his eyes focused straight ahead, Jesse responded curtly. “That’s everything I’ve got for now. Ethan Tallhorse is my local tribal contact, and he remembers stories from childhood about Spirits and Gods, but nothing like this one. I’m still looking for the remaining stones that will complete the story.” He fell silent again, as his gaze remained fixed on some point up ahead.

For her part, Alice recognized the conflict warring within Jesse. For all his bluster, for all his protests against the thought of Bethany being responsible for Sarah’s murder, she knew that the scientist in him was still weighing the facts. Also, those facts were busy raising his feelings of guilt over the combined possibilities that someone who worked for him may have killed one of his best friends and his own academic pursuits may have sown the seeds for a crazed serial killer. She knew his pride in his work and his intense loyalty to his

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friends would prevent him voicing those feelings, at least in front of a stranger, but they were there nonetheless.

Tom caught the gaze of Alice in the rearview mirror. She shrugged her shoulders as if to tell the agent not to bother trying to draw her fiancée back into a conversation. The continuing silence gave an opening for Alice to talk shop with the Agent.

“Have your people been able to come up with any other connections between the killers?”

Tom bit his lip in resignation. “Not yet- at least nothing substantial. There’s only the Church connection between the third and fourth.”

“Real Christian of them,” scoffed Jesse, his gaze still unwavering from his intense, pouting stare at the landscape passing by. “How odd that people so often mix religion with killing.” His voice trailed off as he fought off his feelings of depression.

Tom recognized the shadings of contempt but chose to ignore them and try to bring the good professor back into a productive discourse. “You’ve got no idea. This is the strangest case I have ever seen. Six murders we know of, apparently committed by at least four separate killers: the first murders were by a low-IQ paranoid schizophrenic and the next two murders by people who were, at first glance, two ordinary, sane, people, and now these latest two.”

Jesse snorted contemptuously. “Pardon my own moral compass, but I think any killer is insane.”

“I agree. However, given the gruesome torture in these cases, I would normally expect the killer to be a raving nutcase or a similarly socially separated individual. That holds true for the first killer but not the last ones. And who knows what we’ll find when we investigate these latest killings.”

Jesse’s eyes flashed again with the pang of distraught anger, welling onto the surface of his demeanor. “Until she confesses, you won’t be able to convince me Beth is a killer! The only possible explanation is she’s being framed.”

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“If you are right, then we’ll find it out,” he said in an attempt to cut off the anger he was sensing. “But we have to keep questioning here, even if she is innocent. You have to recognize that anything she can tell us about the night in question will go a long way to breaking this mystery. There has to be some association between the killers, but we just haven’t found it- and your student may hold the key.”

“I’ve known Beth for almost three years now. She is altogether pleasant, focused, and in control. That doesn’t sound at all like it matches your other killers!”

Sensing a possible recurrence of their previous argument, Tom launched into a description of the murder scenes. Perhaps, he hoped, he might shock the Professor into withholding his overprotective shell about his student and giving them something useful to solve this case.

“You say Beth is focused, and that in itself tells me something,” argued Tom. “Each murder victim was systematically bound in an extremely precise manner, and the killer proceeds to skin them alive. Think about it. The murderer takes his or her time… using surgical precision. To perform such an act speaks of intense focus. It can’t be easy to cut the skin from the body without digging too deeply, even given the fact that the victims were drugged.”

Jesse shot up in his seat. “The killer would need a steady hand?” Obviously taken aback by the question, as much at the probing content as

the intense delivery, Tom allowed himself time to consider the question before responding decisively. “Absolutely. I overheard the coroner profess a sense of admiration for the surgical skill needed to remove layers of skin without cutting too deep.”

“Well, that proves Beth’s innocence!” stated Jesse triumphantly as he sat up straight.

Fearing a re-escalation of the argument over Beth, Alice leaped back into the conversation, smoothing her words with comforting tones. “Honey, we know she doesn’t have any formal medical training, but that doesn’t mean she

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couldn’t have picked it up elsewhere.” Jesse shook his head defiantly. “Wrong! You’re forgetting about Beth’s

Parkinson’s!” Tom’s head jerked up in surprise and found that he was looking in the

rearview mirror to gauge Alice’s reaction. “I noticed she was trembling during questioning, but I just chalked that up to nerves.” He found himself quickly reevaluating the facts in his case against the graduate student. “Is it advanced?”

“Stage two! She experiences extensive periods of bilateral tremors in her legs and arms- sometimes even has difficulty keeping her balance at times. It’s a progressive disease, and her courage in the face of it was one of the reasons I took her on as a graduate assistant.”

Tom quickly pulled out his cell phone. “Hold on- I want to talk to the Coroner.” Seconds later, he was apparently successful in completing the call. “Jack? Tom Thurston here. Real quick- is there any chance a person with Stage Two Parkinson’s could have flayed the skin from the victims?”

He waited patiently for the answer. “You’re absolutely sure? . . . OK, well thanks for the input.”

Before relating the coroner’s answer to the others, he dialed his phone once again. “Pete, something’s come up. Have you noticed the accused trembling?” He listened to the response from the other end. “Yeah- well I know it now! Jack Sturgess says there is no way someone with her degree of Parkinson’s could have skinned anyone. No, don’t release her yet, but definitely ease up on the questioning. We want to be ready to apologize for any misunderstanding, but we still have to find an answer to her lack of memory and the fact we have evidence from the crime scene that seems to indicate she was there. Tell her that I will speak to her personally sometime tomorrow to explain the situation completely . . . Right, thanks.”

Jesse immediately hammered back at Tom. “Good God, man, you know she’s innocent, so why don’t you let her go?”

“Easy, big guy- we don’t know anything of the kind,” replied Tom, his

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tone and words half in jest to relieve the tension. “There’s still the matter of her sweater and blood being at the murder scene- and we have to follow protocols. Even if she didn’t do the actual killing, she might still be involved somehow.”

Jesse’s belligerence subsided as it dawned on him that the Agent had superiors to answer to and had to abide by the laws on the books. Jesse harbored a small sense of distrust toward law enforcement professionals as a result of past interactions, despite his own fiancée’s line of work. As the three looked at each other, the shroud of silence fell once again but lasted only a short time before Jesse asked another question.

“You hinted at other possible links between the killers. What can you tell me about those?”

Normally Tom would be less open talking about an ongoing investigation. However, given his assessment that the Professor would be valuable in figuring out any possible link between his translations and the murders, along with the fact that the man’s fiancée was the lead local cop on the latest murder, he decided to continue his review of the case for Jesse.

“The blood work on the victims came back with an odd mixture of drugs used on them. We’ve found traces of both a paralytic and a sleep inducing agent in each victim- indicating they probably did not go willingly.”

“Yeah,” replied Jesse. “That’s reasonable. Nobody would knowingly go with a madman without a fight.”

“Right you are,” agreed Tom. “A lot of kidnapping cases involve sedation drugs, but some of the drugs we found in their system are strange.”

“Like what?” “Look- what I’m about to tell you goes no further. We’ve kept it out of

the news, and we need to keep it that way to prevent any further copycats.” He paused, apparently trying to judge the Professor’s reactions. Satisfied that the lack of protest meant Jesse agreed with his request, he continued.

“The killer shows impressive knowledge of pharmaceuticals. There are traces of an extremely odd compound that our experts think would act as some

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kind of temporary paralytic agent. According to the Medical Examiner, that makes sense, since it is unlikely that anyone could perform the surgical niceties of flaying the skin from people if those people were wide-awake and could move. No matter how the body would be bound, movement would make it difficult to inflict the even cuts shown on the bodies of the victims.”

“Also, in each case, the victims’ blood showed high levels of adrenaline, apparently introduced by injection- and in the last cases we also found traces of hallucinogens.”

Jesse’s response was incredulous with horror. “So you think the killer puts the people to sleep, then injects them with adrenaline to wake them up- even while somehow paralyzing their movements? The killer wants his victims awake and agitated but unable to move?”

“Unfortunately, yes. The sleep agent used is not a very potent one- it appears to be a homemade concoction. We estimate the victims would be unconscious for less than an hour or so. The theory is the killer injects the adrenaline near the end of the torture to heighten the fear of the captured victim. Combined with the hallucinogens, they induce an enhanced level of terror while the temporary paralysis keeps the victims from ruining the artistry of the killer.”

“This leads us to our profile of a Power & Control nut, someone who is thriving on the fear of his victims. That the killers are insane is a given, but their motivations are still a matter of speculation, except that they seem to be playing a game with us- throwing us bones like Beth’s sweater.”

“If the killers form some kind of connected group,” explained Alice, “staging murders in a similar fashion, they are probably smart enough to lead us astray from time to time. Assuming Beth is as innocent as we now think, then finding her DNA at the murder site would be proof that someone, or some group, is trying to screw with the investigation.”

“Well,” responded Tom, “then we still have some killers to catch.”

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Chapter IX

Ethan Tallhorse lived up to his name. A pure blood descendant of the Iroquois, a People whose Confederacy once spread over much of the Northeast US and Southern Canada, as a man he was an impressive physical specimen. Standing nearly six foot five, his long mane of black hair cascaded over his broad shoulders. At the age of sixty, he still reflected an aura of strength that struck all who met him.

At least usually, thought Jesse sadly. Today Ethan was a man in mourning for the loss of his life partner and

mother of their four children. Standing in the long line of mourners, Jesse caught the man’s eyes briefly and registered an instant empathic realization of the depth of the big man’s sorrow.

Standing by Jesse’s side, Alice talked to others on the receiving line, holding on to his hand while letting him be himself. She knew that Jesse and Ethan shared a bond she could only guess at, and the murder of Sarah Tallhorse weighed as heavily on Jesse as anyone outside the woman’s family.

Hand in hand with his Fiancée while thinking about the loss his friend felt today, Jesse found himself reflecting on how much he loved this beautiful woman by his side, how much he wanted to spend his life with her, and how much hate he would feel if he and Ethan’s places were reversed.

They spent the next few minutes in small talk before he found himself face to face with the grieving man. Seeing his pain, Jesse reflected on how valuable a friend Ethan had been in gaining permission to go ahead with the archeological dig inside the Reservations boundaries.

Tears welled in each man’s eyes as they embraced each other in silent brotherhood. After a short time, Ethan stepped back and did his best to compose himself.

“Thanks for coming, and thank you for your kind note. I know that Sarah would have appreciated you being here, seeing that she liked you more than she

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liked me.” A glint of humor had crossed the big man’s face before he continued solemnly. “I want you to know I don’t believe your student is capable of this- and even if by some chance out of hell it is true, I would never blame you. The past two years have been a blessing to not only me but to Sarah and the kids as well.”

“No more of a blessing to you than me,” responded Jesse solemnly. “Your whole family has been instrumental in the little progress I’ve made. I am forever in your debt, and you have my support and love. All you have to do is whistle,” he said with a grin, remembering a shared joke, “and I’ll be there.”

As he finished, he realized Alice had rejoined him after talking with Ethan’s grown children. Alice walked up to Ethan and gave him a huge hug, and Jesse could see his friend was close to losing it. Then suddenly he saw that once again Ethan was able to call upon his inner strength to stand tall and proud before them.

Acknowledging a couple behind Jesse and Alice, Ethan realized he still had to focus on the rest of the mourners. “We’ll be seeing each other a lot over your semester break, I’d assume. And of course I’ll be talking to you while you find the bastard who did this, Alice” The malice in the big man’s voice left no doubt that he would accept nothing less.

The three of them shook hands one last time before Ethan turned to greet the others behind them. Jesse and Alice made their way through the crowd and out into the foyer of the funeral home. As Alice got her coat on, Jesse noticed an old man sitting by himself in a darkened room off the main hallway.

Recognizing the withered face of Ethan’s father, patriarch of the Tallhorse family, and Chief of the tribe for years before handing his reins to Ethan, Jesse entered the room to pay his respects.

“Good evening, Gray Wolf,” he said. “Please accept my condolences on your loss.” He shook the old man’s hand, noting that there was still strength in that ancient body.

Gray Wolf took the offered hand of friendship as Jesse noted a tear rolling

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down the old man’s cheek. That sight, more than anything else that had happened these past two days, struck home the loss his friends and their family must be feeling.

Without lifting his eyes from a straight-ahead stare, the old man spoke, his voice frail with over one hundred years of use. “I felt the wind of death blow, old friend, but I failed to warn my family and friends. Failed to warn anyone. My nights have been bleak of late wondering if my mind was finally failing me. If only I had faith enough to trust my instincts, then my lovely daughter-in-law might still be alive.”

“You can’t blame yourself,” admonished Jesse. “There’s no way you could have known this would happen.”

“I’m sorry to disagree,” replied the old man. “Sorry that your upbringing still hides answers to questions spoken all around you. If I could will my understanding upon you, I would, but even some of those raised by my hand fail to understand clues given us. “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in the stars but in ourselves.” Shakespeare was not a member of my tribe, but he had wisdom- much like my ancestors.”

Jesse felt ill at ease, not understanding the meaning of the old man’s words, worried that, perhaps, some senility was showing through.

Gray Wolf’s bright eyes belied his years and sparkled as he continued. “Thank the Great Spirit that my family and our good friends are united in their love during our time of loss.”

Jesse leaned over and gave his friend a slow hug, then turned and left the room as a few more mourners found their way to talk to the elderly man.

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Chapter IX Alice and Tom waited patiently for the twenty-something man to empty

his briefcase on the desk in front of them, smiling at each other at the infectious enthusiasm of the young scientist on loan to the FBI.

Cedric Boyle was extremely excited by the prospect of being included in this investigation and hoped whatever he could bring to the table might be appreciated enough to ensure future inclusions. His type of science too often led to long, sometimes boring, hours in the lab, contrary to the TV shows that often glorified the forensic analysts who stood behind law enforcement.

He handed the others a copy of his report and began to explain. “I’ve gone over the toxicology reports on each of the victims, first by comparing them with any similar cases in the database. I cross referenced the drugs identified in the bodies and used them to find matches to past cases.”

“And?” asked Tom. “Surprisingly, zilch. However, the fact that no matches came up just

means the combination of drugs is unique in each case. That in itself is telling!” Alice nodded with interest, catching Tom’s eye and smiling. The young

man’s excitement was contagious and at the same time humorous. She remembered the first cases she ever worked and realized the emotions must be similar.

“The first two murders were, well, less impressive from a toxicological standpoint. The paralytic was in their system, but the killer put those victims to sleep with a mixture of over-the-counter sleep aids, and neither showed signs of anything used to heighten anxiety. However, all the later victims were subjected to a mixture of paralytics, adrenaline, and hallucinogens.”

“That makes sense when you look at the killers,” interjected Tom. “The homeless guy was a basically a putz, but the woman who committed the third killing was a pharmacist. If she were following in the footsteps of the first killer, it only makes sense that she’d improve on the drugs used.”

“Right,” said Cedric, nodding his agreement almost idiotically. “And the

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fourth killer was an M.D. who further improved the chemical mixtures. In fact, after a careful analysis of the percentages of the drugs in the victims’ bodies, it seems likely to me that the murderers are trying to perfect their methods. Unfortunately, I would venture to say that the killers are improving with practice.”

“That cements it,” said Alice. “They had to have been in touch with each other. This is some fine detective work here, Cedric.”

Cedric beamed at the praise as Alice continued. “So this supports our contention of a connection between the killers- that there had to be some form of communication used to pass on their experiences. Perhaps that’s what we should focus on.”

“Agreed,” said Tom, “but we can’t dismiss the other option.” “Other option?” asked Cedric. “We’ve been mulling over other scenarios,” responded Alice.

“Brainstorming possibilities… if I said I could prove that the suspects never communicated with each other, what would you say?”

“Wrong!” barked Cedric, surprising the others with the intensity of his retort. Recognizing the hierarchy of the Investigative team, he quickly backed off and continued almost meekly. “I’d say that you were most likely wrong, or at least extremely unlikely.”

He leaned over and opened a couple of applications on his laptop, pointing to a couple of graphs that appeared. “I’m not even talking about the similarity of the killing methods either. Look at the mixtures and percentages of the hallucinogen versus the adrenaline in the blood samples. No way are those random changes. The amount of the hallucinogen between the third and fourth victim dropped dramatically, most likely because the initial percentage would have made the victim a raving loony before they died. Then we see the percentage creeps up between the fourth, fifth, and sixth. That seems to indicate each kill used information and experience from the previous ones. Each killer had to know about the prior kills and the victims reactions to the cocktail of

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drugs- and is somehow passing the information on to the next murderer.” “Could be,” agreed Alice. “Or maybe… just maybe… the same person committed each of these murders.” Cedric looked confused. He had obviously been doing his research into the details of the investigations, and his reactions were almost predictable to the others. “But we already have people in custody- and the forensics evidence against them is overwhelming. Everybody agrees on that, right?” “Everyone except the people in custody,” replied Alice, “Apart from the homeless guy who claims to hear voices telling him to kill, the others firmly maintain their innocence. They all claim to have no memory on the nights in question and insist they are incapable of such horrible acts.” “Don’t most guilty people say the same thing?” “Of course they do. However, it all seems too easy, blaming those people for the murders. The DNA and other physical evidence seem damning- almost too damning. I don’t want to lose sight of the possibility these people may have been set up.” “Wow. Cool.” Cedric had no need to voice any other words of praise. He was thoroughly impressed with the police work and enthralled with his participation in the investigation. Alice chuckled at the feeling of near hero worship emanating from Cedric. “So you can tell us all about the drugs used to create fear in the victim… but what about the other drugs in their systems?” “You mean the drugs used to knock them out? I found traces of Zaleplon in the later victims but not in very high quantities.” “Zala what?” “Zaleplon. It’s a sedative/hypnotic commonly used to treat insomnia.” “What other drugs?” “There’s something else in the blood work I haven’t been able to figure out. There is something else mixed with the Zaleplon, but it’s an odd configuration- something I’ve never seen before. I’ll let you know what it is as

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soon as I figure it out.” “Alright,” said Tom, “then we know the main drug the killer is using, so we can trace people who have access. Keep up the good work, Cedric, and let us know the minute you find anything else.”

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Chapter X Lisa Franklin’s face dropped as she noted who her visitor was. She was obviously hoping for someone else- disappointed by the appearance of the Police Chief.

No matter how often Alice ventured inside the walls of the county jail, it never failed to impress her with the gloom seemingly contained within its structure. Only an already mentally deranged person could ever stay here for long without deteriorating, and that thought gave her pause to reflect on the mental state of the accused. Depression was evident in the despondent woman sitting across the table from her.

“I need to go over some facts in your case, Mrs. Franklin. You‘ve repeatedly insisted that you remember picking up a hitch hiker on your way home that night- yet your kids claim you never pick up strangers.”

“I never pick up anyone with my kids in my car- good god! Do you have kids? NO way I’d pick up anybody with my kids. But that night was cold, and I felt sorry for the guy.”

“We’ve run your description of the man in the papers, but no one’s come forward to corroborate your story.

“How many times do I have to tell you people,” pleaded the woman. “I remember nothing after picking up the hitchhiker some two miles from town, and you think that the reason no one is coming forward to admit they got a ride from me is that I’m lying? Bullshit! He won’t come forward because he’s the murderer! If you want to solve this case, find that guy!” Alice sensed Franklin was close to losing it and decided to press on; believing that increased stress might produce something substantial. The room they were in stunk, though obviously kept clean by the prison staff. The smell came from the woman, whose near breakdown since her incarceration for murder was a reminder to Alice of the thin line she walked between getting at the truth and driving an obviously tortured soul over the edge.

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The woman started to cry yet again. “I don’t understand why this is happening. I’ve never done anything wrong in my entire life.” Alice knew that was not true. This woman had a past of violence, though likely justified by her previous marital situation. A victim of spousal abuse a few years earlier, Franklin took matters into her own hands, beating her ex-husband with a bat and sending him to the hospital with multiple broken bones. She pled self-defense, lost, but got off with just a suspended sentence and some counseling. Of course, that past came back to bite her when arrested for this murder, leaving the judge no choice but to set a bail high enough to keep her in jail. The ensuing weeks were psychologically damaging to the young woman, so much so that she spent much of her time in the prison hospital as the psychologists tried to keep her from suffering a total nervous breakdown. Knowing this, Alice was less harsh on her than others she interrogated in the past, yet the seriousness of her investigation kept the Chief on the offensive. “So you stopped to help a stranger… do you do things like that often?” Her tone was decidedly shaded with disbelief. “Absolutely,” replied the woman sarcastically, in response to Alice’s tone. “I stop for little old ladies crossing the street and pick up stray dogs too.” She leaned over the table and fixed Alice with a hard stare. “Listen, bitch. I stopped to help someone. Get it? I was being nice!” Alice was unfazed by the woman’s response, finding herself pleased by the response. Her interrogation seemed ready to get some real answers, as the woman’s anger seemed to have lifted the accused out of her previous depression. “Fine,” replied Alice. “You stopped to help someone. You did a nice thing.” She paused to allow her praise to settle over the woman’s psyche, to get her off balance… and then pounced. “Then why’d you slice off his skin and kill him like some animal?” She hoped that the stage was set for the woman to confess to the brutal

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murder of Tom Foley. However, the accused just sat back in her chair and stared at Alice. “You people amaze me,” she said softly, in a tone of resignation. “You don’t believe me when I say what I know, and you think you can make me admit to something I know I didn’t do.” Alice leaned forward, lifting a case file toward the woman. “You admit yourself that you don’t remember anything after leaving the hitchhiker off.” She paused for effect while watching the woman’s reactions. “Maybe you are telling the truth about that. Maybe you truly don’t remember, but you have to admit that finding his bloody shirt in your trunk and your own blood where we found the body makes it understandable how we might think you murdered him.” The woman closed her eyes, clenched them shut as if trying to ward herself from the pain of the Chief’s comments. “Have I done some things in my life that I regret? Yes. But I’ve been on the straight and narrow for years. I have a family and a community that knows me for what I am- a hardworking, God-fearing woman.” The torment in the woman’s voice was now completely gone, and the conviction in her voice convinced Alice that the woman was sincere in her belief that she was innocent, for what that was worth. It did convince Alice that the woman had nothing new to add to their investigation, so she ended the interview and started to leave, but the woman’s hand shot out and grabbed Alice, prompting the guard to jump forward, only to be motioned back by the Chief. “It’s alright,” she said to the guard, then turned back to the prisoner with steel in her eyes. “Release me,” she commanded. The woman complied slowly, but the tears welling in her eyes stabbed at the sympathies Alice held in her heart. “You’ve got to find out who did these murders. You’ve got to get me out of here.” Alice’s response was brusque but honest. “I am going to find out the truth- and God help you if you’ve been lying to me.”

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The prisoner shocked Alice by smiling a little. “I believe you,” she said simply. “Thank you.” The door clanged behind her, leaving her to walk down the hallway with Thurston who had been watching the interrogation from the observation room. Her voice echoed against the steel and reinforced glass sealing off the interview rooms from the hallway. “Call me nuts,” she said with a chuckle, “but that woman honestly believes she’s innocent. I see no hint of any psychotic breaks that might mask a memory- and she appears to be sincere. She convinced me.” “You’re preaching to the choir,” responded Tom. “Based on interviewing them, neither she nor Hadden would even be considered- if not for the God damn physical evidence. That’s why they call these things mysteries!” Alice noted Tom’s smile overriding the seriousness of their talk. This latest interview was the second of the day for the two of them. The earlier one with John Hadden, the lead suspect in the third murder, had gone much the same way. It left Alice to ponder the possibility that those two murders were still unsolved and the real killer still at large. That conclusion made sense to her, given the additional murders after the incarceration of those two- unless, of course, they were lying and part of a larger conspiracy of some incredibly warped cult. “If I had to bet, I’d put my money on the theory these two are being framed, and the killer is still at large, laughing at us. There’s nothing that I’ve heard or seen that make me believe there is any connection at all between these two.” “Again,” reminded Tom, “preaching to the choir… OK?” She smiled at her fellow officer of the law. “So what next? How do we proceed?” “Quickly,” answered Tom. “We have to catch this creep before we lose anyone else and to do that we have to somehow force his hand.”

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Chapter XI

Despite the sorrow and guilt that continually flowed through his psyche, Jesse had work to do. Sitting in the large tent at the dig site that doubled as his sometimes home, sometimes office, he reviewed the computerized maps of the site created by his graduate assistant, leaving the Professor to marvel at the detail available from the program. As a confirmed technophobe, he could handle email for his own purposes and could hunt and peck a keyboard for a Google search if required. However, anything more advanced than that was the domain of his graduate assistants.

That reminded him he had better call Sam around noon to see how the last class went and check when his young assistant expected to return. He also wanted a head count on the number of undergraduates who were joining them to receive extra credit. There was need of some strong backs over the next week since the Professor was now certain where the rest of the burial stones might be located.

It came in a daydream last night, as he sat in the dark thinking about the sadness in Ethan’s eyes at the funeral. All of a sudden, it was obvious to him. With the entire site buried under a landslide dating back nearly five hundred years, he previously concentrated digging on the small plateau where the excavation was now expanding.

However, they had ignored the sloping hill leading up to it. The remains of a longhouse were unearthed close to the beginning of the plateau, and that is what led to Jesse’s newest insight.

It was unlikely that these villagers would have built their main abodes so close to a steep hill. He had missed the point that it only made sense to assume the overall shape of the land changed during the geological upheaval that buried the village. His mind also considered many other ways this might have happened, from new Earthquakes or even just plain erosion. After all, the tribe occupied the site of the dig over five hundred years ago, and lots could change

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over that long a period. It was possible that they originally built the longhouse in the middle of the plateau, which meant the sloping hill represented ground that fell away during the geologic upheaval.

Standing up, he walked toward the slope, passing the stone cairn containing the remains of the supposedly possessed Medicine Man from the legend. He smiled as he passed his hand over the flat rock forming the top of the coffin and found himself wondering for the umpteenth time why the original inhabitants built such a thing. He was confident if he found the rest of the artifacts, they would impart the answer.

He thought back to all the interviews he performed with the current members of the tribe. The story of the buried village was familiar to those he interviewed, including Ethan Tallhorse, a man whose lineage traced back to some of the great Iroquois chieftains of the past.

He remembered the day when Ethan brought him to this site on the western edge of the local reservation, his resolve to gain additional knowledge intensified. He pictured that day in his mind, when the elders led him in a ritual spiritual cleansing- used to ensure that the land itself might accept this outsider and allow for the revelations of its secrets.

The ritual was a formality, Jesse knew, but a necessity to assuage some hurt feelings in the rest of the tribe. There were still those who objected: a few elders who were not at all pleased that outsiders were living and working on their land. After all, it was the site of past glory, and they desired above all else to avoid any possible desecration of a sacred site.

Luckily, most of the younger members of the tribe were pragmatic in their support of Jesse. Ethan himself said he had no real belief in the superstitions of his ancestors. He was a modern man, educated at Harvard, for God’s sake, and had long ago come to grips with the history of his people and the difficulties many of them still faced. After law school, he returned to his hometown with the intention of acting as a guardian of his people and their heritage. Over the years he succeeded, not only in that respect but also as a respected civic leader

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for the entire town. Jesse smiled as he remembered the meeting where many of the tribe

argued against allowing his research on their land. That day was cemented his friendship with Ethan when he convinced a majority that the knowledge to be gained of their ancestry and culture was worth any hurt feelings about “outsiders”.

As Jesse made his way to his newly targeted area, he smiled as he thought of how much knowledge he had gained through his friendship with Ethan. The stories the man regurgitated from memory were mostly variations on other legends. Jesse was familiar with some of them through his studies of the Iroquois culture, but many of the big man’s revelations were more of a personal nature, gleaned from his father and grandfather. These insights and their sharing led to an even stronger bond of friendship between them.

Even as those memories warmed his thoughts, a deep voice rumbled from behind him, its deep bass tones making him feel good as he recognized its speaker.

“Beware the wicked wind, for the chilling wind carries evil news.” Jesse recognized the voice, decided to ignore the urge to turn around, and

instead let his mind slip into the memory of the ancient rite his friend now recited. “But the Wind is merely the voice of the World,” he responded correctly, “possessing neither good nor evil.”

Ethan paused, continuing the mantra he taught Jesse a few months back. “That is unless you harbor good or evil in your soul. Then the wind may fan the fire of passions until the hero or villain blazes forth.”

At the break in the standard give and take in the Mystery of the Great Spirit, Jesse turned to face his friend. “Is that what you think happened? Someone with evil in their soul is walking our land? I believe you might have something there.”

Ethan walked past Jesse toward the broken pieces of the burial cairn and stood still as he considered all that these past few days ripped from his soul.

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“You probably know it as well as me, but I can tell you that Sarah loved coming here and talking with you. She said your talks allowed her to feel closer to our heritage. She also said it increased her love for me… her love…” His voice trailed off, choking with emotion.

Jesse reached his arm up and grabbed Ethan by the shoulder. He realized, not for the first time that this bear of a man had emotional depths that matched his physical strength. Moreover, he was understandably deeply pained.

He needed a friend, which Jesse was proud to supply. “What brings you up here? You should be home with your boys and your grandchildren.” Sympathy warmed his chiding tone.

The big man stood up straight, taking in a huge breath. “I had to get out for a walk and thought you might be up here. I talked to Alice earlier, and she said the police have pretty much dismissed Beth as a suspect, though they still have questions for her to answer. I’m trying to figure out who could possibly have done something like this and being here always gets my mind flowing- it’s almost like this place talks to me.”

“You saw Alice? I thought she was going to Albany to meet with the FBI.”

“Well, maybe she’s going later. There was an FBI Agent in her office, a Tom something.”

“Thurston?” “Yeah, that’s him. I just pray they can help Alice find the bastard who

stole my Sarah!” “They will,” assured Jesse. “Why don’t you go back home and be with

your family? I talked with your Father at the funeral for a few minutes, and he told me how grateful he was that your whole family is around to support each other.”

“You talked to Gray Wolf, and that’s all he said to you?” Ethan’s voice registered bemusement shaded with surprise. “Usually it’s all we can do to shut him up. Did you threaten to do something to him?”

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“Yeah, like I’d ever try to shut down a 102-year-old patriarch who could probably still break me in two? Besides, I always enjoy talking with him and love his wisdom. Also, his stories make great copy for my research- there’s almost a whole chapter on him and his stories in my upcoming book.”

“Maybe he knew that and was just trying to butter you up. However, the wisdom you attribute to him seems to be a little sparse these days. Senility is finally catching up, I’m afraid. Lately, he’s been spouting more and more tribal platitudes than actually talking. The Doctor thinks it’s a sign that his age is showing.”

“I certainly haven’t noticed any slowing of his mind, although I can see what you mean about the platitudes. He told Alice and me that the night Sarah went missing he felt a cold wind coming from the North, even while the clouds were moving in the opposite direction. His description made me feel like I had been there with him.”

“He’s always had an incredible gift for storytelling, for overlaying spiritual meanings on natural events.”

“No doubt,” agreed Jesse. “He claimed he felt an Ill Wind, the Cold Wind- feeling it was a herald of death. He claims that’s how he knew someone close was going to die- he just didn’t know who or when.”

Ethan sounded a great and deep sigh, allowing his basso voice to rumble his displeasure. “As much as I respect him, I don’t need to keep hearing that- he told me the same thing. He’s still living in the past, using his final years as an attempt to reach back and paint our heritage with relevance.”

“Speaking of which, have you changed your mind about filling him in on my finding the burial cairn? Did you ever stop to consider that he might find some solace knowing that this legendary place actually exists? After all, it can’t be easy for you to keep him in the dark.”

Ethan snorted as he looked back down the mountain away from the dig. A sudden look of concern came over him as he realized the stand of trees he just walked through were obviously suffering from some malady. “I didn’t notice

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that before,” he said, pointing at the dying trees. “How long have those trees been sick?”

Jesse stood by the side of his friend and shook his shoulders to relay his uncertainty. “They started dying off about six months ago if my memory serves me right. I had a landscaper friend come up and look at them, and he said the blight is probably due to an infestation or fungus of some kind, though he didn’t know which. He suggested someone might want to look into cutting them down and replanting, though.”

“Humph!” Ethan snorted. “You asked me why I haven’t talked to my father about the dig. Believe me that I started to broach the subject any number of times, but he gets agitated at the thought, ranting about how evil must stay buried. You could bet he’d blame the sick trees on your Dig if he knew about them. After all, he believes the Great Spirit sent the landslide that buried this village to prevent evil from spreading. If he found out that I’d arranged for you to search for the lost village, he’d probably die on the spot.” Despite his words, Ethan smiled broadly before continuing. “But he would surely wait until after he killed both of us with his own hands.”

“So you don’t want to chance him getting too upset?” “You said it. As it is, I prepare Valerian root tea every evening just to get

him to sleep.” “What kind of root?” “Valerian. It’s a natural sleep inducer recipe handed down from my

grandmother. “An old Indian remedy?” “Yeah, as the joke goes, for an old Indian.”

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Chapter XII

Back at the station, Alice sat with Tom and two other Agents in the room set aside as the FBI’s local office, shaking her head in annoyance while the conference call continued with Agents back in New York City.

“I thought we’d all agreed Ryerson couldn’t be the killer,” she stated. The conference speaker came to life, with Tom’s associate, Jay Simmons,

responding. “We questioned her for nearly 48 straight hours, and her story never changed. Moreover, the Parkinson’s is no ruse. She really shakes at times, but it’s not from nerves. We think she’s telling the truth as she knows it, but there are more holes in her story than Swiss cheese.”

“She acknowledged the sweater we found was hers and remembers wearing it that night, but claims to have no idea how it ended up 20 miles away covering a dead body- and next comes the weird part.” The sarcastic tone of the Agent’s voice irked Alice a little, but she realized that was only due to her personal ties to the suspect.

The Agent continued. “She claims her last recollection of that night was going out for a walk around 8:00. Next thing she remembers is waking up in her bed the next morning- with no memory of watching TV shows, reading, nothing. Like I said before, Swiss Cheese- and I’m lactose intolerant!”

“But you have to admit that her story sounds familiar,” argued Alice. “The previous suspects also claimed similar lapses in memory, but no one can come up with any realistic reason for it- no drugs, no hypnosis, no psychosis- nothing.

“What if it were some form of temporary Amnesia?” asked Tom. “Caused by something traumatic, perhaps? Like murder, perhaps? She’s blocking something out, that much is for sure. Let’s assume a couple of things as fact- one; she couldn’t have performed the actual murders, not with the trembling caused by her Parkinson’s. Two- even Jay is convinced that Ryerson truly can’t remember that night.”

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“Where does that leave us?” asked Alice. “How about this for a scenario? Suppose Beth is taking a walk when

somebody drives up and takes her captive- maybe she knows him, or maybe he uses some form of knockout inducer to prevent a struggle. The murderer now has two captives, Sarah and Beth. He drives to a remote spot, tortures Sarah, killing her in the process. For some reason the murderer spares Beth and decides to use her as a scapegoat, planting her sweater on the body, taking her back to the cabin she stayed at, leaving her there to take the fall.”

Alice pondered the speculation of the FBI agent for about thirty seconds before responding, “Sorry, there are too many untidy parts. What are the chances a murderer, on the way to torturing and killing a victim, will stop and pick up a possible witness? And if he did, why would he return that witness to her house?”

Tom considered the arguments against his speculation and realized she was probably right.

“What about the other murders?” asked Alice. “We have the odd fact that each of the accused professes blackouts? Is there any possible medical explanation?”

A sultry female voice coming from the speaker broke a momentary silence. Alice recognized the voice of the clinical psychiatrist assisting the FBI on this case. Doctor Holly Daniel was currently in her midtown Manhattan office, flipping through case files on her desk as she considered the discussions on the conference call.

“The very fact that these murders have become a news sensation over the past weeks lends some credence to the mass hysteria angle. However, the first two murders were solved almost immediately, and the media coverage was slight. I’d have to say, at least in the total number of cases, that mass hysteria was unlikely.”

“And what about the hypnosis idea,” asked Tom. “Maybe slightly more likely, though still a long shot. I consider the

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Ryerson woman a very unsuitable candidate for a hypnotic suggestion of the power required here. She is a very confident young woman, and that intelligence would make her a hard subject to control that way. The first few killers in this ongoing nightmare were more likely subjects for hypnosis.”

“And she really remembers nothing from that night? Maybe you could hypnotize her to get the answer.” Alice stopped as she realized she was contradicting exactly the point the Doctor had just made.

Holly hadn’t missed that either, and her voice took on a piqued tone. “Like I said, Sheriff, it’d be a long shot. We practiced some relaxation techniques that help in a case like this. The only thing I was able to help her remember was the feeling of a strong cold wind that night. She also mentioned a sensation of fog.”

Alice thought for a second before pulling out her calendar. The night of the murder had been a cloudless night, lit by a full moon, she remembered. She also remembered spending time sitting on her porch that night after a day of unseasonable warmth. She remembered taking a glass of ice-cold lemonade out to look at the night sky.

“There was no wind that night. And it was hot- like a dog day of August, sweltering and calm. If Beth said that, then she dreamt it, or she’s lying.”

“Probably a dream then, or some kind of reaction to a possible drug,” responded Holly. “I’m confident she was telling the truth as she knows it.”

Tom’s eyes rolled to the ceiling as he recognized another dead end. I think we have a good read on Ryerson. Have the Chief release her- but make sure she gives her the “don’t go out of town without telling us” speech.”

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Chapter XIII

Getting a booth at Pete’s Bar and Restaurant was necessary, at least for Jesse. While Alice was homegrown, a fixture in the community, he still felt like an interloper, especially when surrounded by the good old boys at the pub. A booth gave him a measure of privacy- and he needed it here.

The truth was that he rarely enjoyed the bar scene in town, but he had little choice. This was the only local place to get a great cheeseburger and fries, and Alice loved her cheeseburgers.

The couple made small talk, left mostly alone, which was surprising given all that happened in and around town these past days. Three young men at the bar were talking loudly about some upcoming football games, while a group of older men talked in hushed tones over their beers. The fact that an occasional glance came their way, with little love showing on their faces, increased Jesse’s normal feeling of being an outsider.

For her part, Alice recognized the body language of the men, much as Jesse did, but for her, it was all part of the job. She assumed they were, like most of the people in town, more than a little shocked and scared at the recent killing of one of their own. She recognized the men as owners of local businesses who were likely to feel the brunt of a drop off in tourist visits to this area. So a level of discomfort at seeing the Chief of Police, off-duty and apparently (though not true) unconcerned, might shake the faith of townspeople. She made a mental note to make sure and talk to each of those customers before leaving. It was always better, to her way of thinking, to keep the public apprised of the facts and confident in her approach to a crisis.

Munching on a fry, Jesse glared back at the men, determined to win the staring contest.

A hand placed on his brought his attention back to the table. “Don’t get upset, babe. I don’t- it’s all part of the job. Besides, it’ll be better for everyone involved if we don’t have any untoward discussion with the townsfolk.”

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Jesse blushed as her pointed reference to a past incident hit home. A few months earlier, Jesse was involved in a shouting match that accelerated into a physical scuffle with a couple of “Townies”. That incident colored all his dealings with the townsfolk- and the feeling was mutual.

Alice wanted desperately for her fiancée to fit in since they both agreed this would be their home after they married. She would continue running the Police and Jesse could still teach a special schedule back in the city while continuing his archaeological explorations into Native American cultures in the Northeast. No doubt, he would have to spend a fair amount of time on the road, but the couple was confident their love could handle it.

For her part, Alice was supportive of the pursuit of knowledge and the love he had for his subject matter. After all, that same research led him to this small town and eventually into her loving arms. She would never forget that, and thus would never think of trying to undermine his work in any way, family or no.

The warmth of her hand and wisdom of her advice brought him back to focus solely on his love for this wonderful woman. They continued their meal in peaceful small talk, dealing mostly with the progress at the dig site. It made for a pleasant switch, and he soon found himself immersed in archeological speculation, theory, and fact. His focus was such that he failed to notice a new entrant into the bar scene, a well-dressed man of sixty, who made a beeline to their table.

Alice saw him coming first, taking a deep breath as she recognized the man. Mayor Colin Finnerty, looking extremely displeased.

“Evening Chief,” he said, pausing as he glared at Jesse. “Professor.” The latter greeting carried with it some venom. “Sorry to interrupt your dinner.” Jesse’s glare of ire grew at the disingenuous nature of the man’s statement.

Not a pleasant way to end a nice dinner thought Alice. The Mayor had it in for Jesse, ever since an incident a while back where his son, Chase Finnerty, sucker punched Jesse during an argument in this same bar.

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Even though the majority of observers confirmed Jesse’s recollection of events, there were those who disputed them. It so happened that they were members of the community with close ties to the mayor and his family and the conflicting stories led to a dropping of all charges against both men.

The bad blood between Jesse and Finnerty remained a continuing sore point for Alice as she walked the tightrope of supporting for her fiancée while still needing the support of the Mayor and the Town Council to do her job. Before things could escalate, Alice thought quickly. “Evening Mayor,” she responded before turning back to Jesse. “Honey, could you go order me another beer and some more fries?” “No problem. I think I’ll order another cheeseburger, too.” He got up and walked up to the bar.

The Mayor accepted Jesse leaving the table as a positive thing and launched into Alice.

“Is what I hear true? You that Ryerson lady go?” “There’s not enough evidence to hold her, and it’d be no use to charge her

unless we’re sure.” “So? You just let her go free? What if you’re wrong and she IS the

killer?” “She’s being kept under surveillance by the FBI task force, so there’s

precious little chance she could slip away even if she were guilty.” “Well, I don’t agree. The council and I feel this woman needs to be kept

behind bars if only to ease people’s fears.” “Well,” responded Alice icily, “It's a good thing I only have to follow the

law and not the whims of the town council. Besides, the orders come from the FBI task force. They’re in charge in this matter.” Her tone indicated the finality of her comments.

Colin’s face flushed with anger, as he fought back his feelings. “You better watch your back on this, Chief,” he warned. “There are a lot of people in town who see this as another example of your boyfriend using undue influence

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on the legal system. The only reason that killer bitch was in our midst was your boyfriend and his idiotic excavations!”

Alice saw immediately through the Mayor’s obvious bias, and in her thoughts, she substituted “Mayor Finnerty et.al.” for the “people in town”. In support of his son, Colin thereby hated Jesse and by connection Alice too. Surprisingly, the obtuse man’s line of reasoning did not anger her, but neither did it sway her.

“First- don’t threaten me - I don’t take kindly to it. Secondly- I would appreciate it if you kept your opinion of any suspect in question to more civil tones. If she does turn out to have something to do with this murder- something I find very doubtful- then you going around spouting venom about her will only lead to any self-respecting Judge moving any trial out of our jurisdiction. Think about that before you spout off again.”

At this point, Jesse returned to the table carrying Alice’s order of fries and his second cheeseburger. While he missed the actual conversation, he could tell that it had bothered Alice and that made him angry.

As Jesse sat down, the Mayor stood silently, digesting the Chief’s retort. His heavy breathing indicated he, too, was upset. Luckily, for all involved, his pause allowed the man to regain his composure.

“Well,” he said finally, “I delivered the message, what you do with it is your own business.” He drummed his finger in irritation on the tabletop. “Have a nice night,” he said without much conviction as he walked away.

“Wellll,” drawled Jesse sarcastically, “that was pleasant. What the hell did he want?”

“Drop it,” she replied tersely, “and pass me the ketchup.” As he complied, Alice’s cell phone rang. Frowning at this newest

interruption to her dinner, she answered. “What?” she demanded. Jesse guessed the call must be from headquarters because Alice was

always polite with the public but often terse with her underlings. She sighed as she listened, nodding her head. “No, you did the right

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thing,” she replied into her phone. “I’ll be there in five.” She hung up and placed the phone back in her shirt pocket. “Sorry to do

this, but I have to meet Tom at the station. He has some new information that he wants to go over in person.” Taking a bite of his sandwich, Jesse shrugged. “Go ahead. I can walk home after I finish my meal.” Standing up, Alice leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks, dear. I’ll see you later.” Jesse returned his attention to finishing off his cheeseburger while watching the football game on Pete’s big screen TV. The rivalry between the Giants and Cowboys kept his attention- so much so that he failed to notice another new entry to the bar. By the time he did, it was too late. The large form of Chase Finnerty was already lumbering toward him, holding a beer in one large hand and frowning intently. As far as Jesse was concerned, that look seemed a permanent fixture on the twenty-seven-year-old. Glancing down at his plate, Jesse found that he was disappointed to see that a full half of his sandwich remained. He thought about bailing on it to avoid an altercation with his rival, but half a cheeseburger was worth fighting over in his book.

As Chase neared, Jesse took stock of his former rival. A little over six foot three, the ex-football linebacker now topped the scales at 270 pounds. The years had not been kind to him since college, his previously sculptured muscles sagging into slightly rounded masses, matched by a moon-shaped head. Still, the kid’s size was formidable when compared to Jesse, and the Internet videos of the man’s cage-fighting skills solidified Jesse’s intentions to keep any altercation on a strictly verbal level. Chase stopped a few feet away, softly tapping his foot and nodding his head as if he were sizing up some backyard boxing foe. “You must feel just awful, Professor.”

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The man’s almost gleeful tone belied his words, and Jesse tensed up at Chase’s verbal volley.

“I mean,” Chase continued, “to be the person responsible for bringing a killer into our midst and then to have that same murderer flay the skin off one of your best friends…I don’t know how you manage to keep it together. Really, I marvel at your restraint.”

Jesse’s eyes never moved from his meal as he continued to eat, seemingly in peace. Internally, however, the rising bile in his stomach fought against Pete’s famous cheeseburgers.

Also, the bile was winning. However, despite his almost overwhelming desire to answer, he managed to keep cool and ignore the irritation of this idiot before him.

Seeing his rival’s reluctance, misinterpreting it as fear, Chase moved closer, putting his hands on the table and leaning into Jesse’s personal space. “I knew you were bad news from the start, coming up here so high and mighty with all your supposed knowledge. You took people in with your act, but now they see it for what it is. I only hope Alice will see it before one of your friends kills her, too!”

“My good God,” responded Jesse slowly. “Is this really what it’s coming down to? Is this what they teach in community college these days? The art of Stupidity?”

Jesse’s words were carefully sculpted, digging into the younger man’s psychic scars derived from flunking out of three separate colleges before coming back home to help run his father’s Drugstore. And take night courses at a small community college up the road.

“Screw-off, Holmes,” was Chase’s only retort as he stood back up. His face was now flushed red, realizing too late that the other patrons obviously heard every word they said. “Why don’t you and your murderer friend go back to New York with all the other cancerous city crap?”

Jesse applauded sarcastically. “Bravo, Chase. You actually managed to

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complete a sentence- with alliteration to boot- and you did it spontaneously. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“You pompous ass!” Chase replied, his face now beet-red and his hands clenching and unclenching in anticipation of a fight. “I read as much literature as anyone.”

Jesse’s laughter at the ignorance of his rival’s reply was having an admittedly bad effect on the situation, and he found himself regretting his gut reaction. He had no real desire to have a second physical altercation with the much larger, stronger, and younger man, but he found his disgust for Chase to be stronger than his desire to avoid a fight.

“You flaming idiot- I didn’t say literature- I said alliteration. Good, God, it’s a real word- look it up in a dictionary!” Sensing this conversation had reached the end of verbal sparring, Jesse stood up ready to protect his body from the now anticipated attack. Before things could degenerate any further, Pete appeared between the two, placing one large hand on Chase’s chest and talking to Jesse. “Professor, I don’t want any repeat of the last unpleasantness, so I’m asking you, please, just finish your meal and leave. It’s on me.” Jesse saw the concern in the barkeep’s eyes and realized the man was not choosing sides but was just trying his best to keep things civil. Even though he just as easily could have asked Chase to leave, it was just good logic to do what he was doing. Jesse had enough brains and common sense to recognize this and not take offense. “You’re right, Pete.” He reached down, picked up the last of his burger and shoved it in one large bite into his mouth. Pausing only to chew and swallow, he shook Pete’s hand to show no hard feelings. “Thanks for picking up the tab- I’ll be sure to tell Alice about your kindness.” He turned and started toward the door. As left, he turned and nodded to the deflated figure of Chase. “I’ll let Alice know your problem with your vocabulary, Chase. Maybe her married officers have some children’s picture

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books they can lend you.” Jesse smiled as he heard the loud cursing that followed him, muffled now through the closed door of the bar. He hummed to himself as he walked up, feeling good about this most recent of seemingly interminable altercations with Chase. Maybe one of these times, the blockhead would finally get it through his head that it was over with Alice, but until that time, Jesse would have to stay content with winning the war of wits. Back inside, Finnerty retired to a table of his friends, surrounded by a cadre of friends who reinforced his alpha role. He had been the leader of this group since high school and still reveled in their fealty. “You should have decked that creep,” stated Bianca Heller, his girlfriend of two months. “”If I’d done that, I’d only give Donahue a reason to lock me up.” His tone changed from anger to irritation, shading his voice so that even her challenged intelligence would catch on. For what seemed the hundredth time, he thought about breaking up with her. However, she was the prettiest, sexiest thing around, and he knew he had no other better thing on the horizon. Realizing this, he backed off on his intended slight and instead chose to reassure the young woman of their solidarity. “I’ve got better plans for my friend than a frontal assault, babe,” he said to his girl, while she smiled at his sugary sweet tone. “And he’ll never see it coming until too late.” The smattering of guffaws and snide comments that followed told Chase that the others were on the same page, bolstering his confidence in his newest assault. He needed a new direction to get the Professor, to bury the man’s reputation and ruin his relationship with Alice. That his former lover would also be hurt mattered little to him since things like this were necessary to the endgame of winning Alice back. Laying out a portion of his plans for his friends, he held back on the particulars, choosing instead to play up the lowbrow parts that he knew this

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crowd would eat up. Even as he spoke, though, his mindset itself on a secret path for extracting further sweet revenge.