Mark of the Demon

“Ah. Well, that’s all right, then.” He sounded mollified. “And I’m glad to hear you nailed the guy. I take it you want to be in on this case?”

“Well, sir, if you don’t think I’d be in the way. It’s just that I probably have the most familiarity with the case files right now, and I think I could help.” I held my breath as I waited for his response. Most likely he’d tell me to meet up with the lead detective in the morning to fill him in. But what I really wanted was to see the body.

“If you don’t have a problem coming out to the scene at this hour, that’s fine with me. You have something to contribute, and it would be good experience for you,” he said, to my relief.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I promised. I raced back inside to change as soon as I hung up, suddenly deeply grateful to my drug-addicted intruder for choosing tonight to break into my house.

Chapter 2

So, what are the chances that it’s the symbol man again? The question dominated my rattling thoughts. The towering pines that crowded the road created an ominous illusion of a dark tunnel as I sped down the deserted highway. Just because a body was found with similar injuries doesn’t mean it’s the same killer, I reminded myself. And I wasn’t sure if I’d be relieved or disappointed if it turned out to be something else. Obviously I didn’t want more people to die, but at the same time I’d been burning with curiosity about the Symbol Man and his victims for nearly three years, and the desire to know was nearly smothering.

The creaky Ford Taurus shimmied annoyingly as I crested a low hill. I could see the lights of Beaulac in front of me, the moonlight reflecting off Lake Pearl beyond the city. It was breathtakingly beautiful, but I wasn’t in the frame of mind to appreciate the view. Perhaps it was merely coincidence that he would start up again now. Just sheer happenstance that the three-year break would coincide so perfectly with the alignment of the two spheres. Anything is possible, I tried to convince myself, but the feeling in the pit of my gut wasn’t buying it.

St. Long Parish was mostly rural but still within reasonable driving distance to New Orleans—which was why I liked living there so much. A small, quiet parish with the city of Beaulac as its hub, it boasted only a few murders a year and not much other crime except for the usual mix of drug abuse and burglaries. And those rare murders were most often the result of disagreements that had been fueled by alcohol and testosterone.

Lake Pearl had been formed centuries earlier from a convergence of several bayous, and the city of Beaulac had sprung up on its shore, developing a comfortable industry catering to sportsmen and weekend vacationers. Though Beaulac was a city only by the strictest definition, for a few years it had gained unfortunate notoriety because of a serial killer who’d become known as the Symbol Man.

I smacked the dashboard of the Taurus in a futile effort to stop one of the more annoying rattles. Even if this victim bore the same symbol, I had to accept the chance that the killer could be a copycat. I grimaced and whacked the dashboard again, muttering something rude as the radio knob flew off and bounced under the seat.

Even if it’s a copycat, it would still have to be someone who knows the details about the symbol. Pictures or specific descriptions had never been officially released, but I knew that information had a way of leaking out. It only took one officer to talk about it after hours in a bar to make it common knowledge. But Captain Turnham would rain hot death on anyone who spread confidential information about this case. He was an absolute stickler for protocols, which made me even more appreciative of his approval to come to the crime scene.

I made the turn onto the gravel road that led to the water-treatment plant. Surrounding the plant was a wooden fence emblazoned with a large red sign that proclaimed: City of Beaulac Wastewater Reclamation Facilities. A white metal building housed the main offices of the facility, and behind that were a number of large vatlike structures that I assumed had something to do with the actual treatment of the water. I gave a low whistle when I saw how many police vehicles were already there. Parked just outside the wooden fence were five marked units, a half dozen unmarked cars, plus a crime-scene van for good measure. I searched for a spot close by, then finally gave up and parked out on the road. I needed the exercise anyway.

I climbed out of my car, shoving my keys into the pocket of my jeans and tucking my Beaulac PD T-shirt in. I grabbed my notebook, made sure I had a pen that worked, then took a deep breath to quell my sudden nervousness. I’d been working my ass off for so long to get to this point that it felt almost surreal to actually be here, on my first homicide investigation. And then to have it be a possible Symbol Man case … Doubly surreal.

I adjusted the badge holder around my neck as I walked up to the scene. I’d harbored a burning curiosity about the Symbol Man murders ever since I was a street cop on the scene of one of his body dumps. I’d seen the body only from a distance, but even from a dozen feet away I could see the faint scattering of light in my othersight and feel the resonance that would be noticed only by someone who was attuned to the arcane. It had shocked and baffled me, and I’d been left with an uncomfortable certainty that the murders had something to do with the demon realm. What little I’d been able to sense of the arcane resonance felt familiar, and I’d waited with morbid eagerness for another body to turn up, determined to make any excuse necessary to get close enough to feel that resonance again.

And then it stopped. No more bodies were found, and in the last three years I’d even begun to doubt what I’d seen and felt from that victim. I’d been promoted to detective a year after the last murder, assigned to Property Crimes, and now—finally—I was a Homicide detective. I could hardly believe that, in just a few minutes, I might have some answers.

What I would—or could—do with those answers was another matter entirely.

The officer by the crime-scene tape gave me a sour look as he thrust a clipboard at me. I didn’t recognize him, which meant that he’d probably been hired within the last two years—after I became a detective.

“Is it really the same symbol?” I asked as I took the clipboard from him and signed the crime-scene entry log.

“Beats me,” he said, a scowl drawing his mouth down. “I didn’t get a chance to look at the body too close. The suits don’t want us road cops looking around the scene.” I could see he was deeply affronted that he’d been prevented from contaminating a major crime scene. Poor baby.

I kept a neutral smile fixed on my face. Yeah, I was a “suit,” but I’d paid my dues as a patrol cop for five years before becoming a detective. “Bummer,” I said simply as I handed the clipboard back and ducked under the tape. No point in trying to educate him about preservation of evidence at a crime scene. He didn’t seem the sort to be willing to hear what I had to say.

It was easy enough to figure out where the body was. Halogen lamps had been set up to illuminate an area between two enormous vats. White metal staircases led up the sides of each vat, but positioned almost directly between the stairs lay a small lump surrounded by stained concrete. As I skirted the area I could see an outflung arm, dark-blond hair, and a body covered with what I thought might be some sort of net or sheer patterned fabric. I wanted to go check out the body so badly it hurt, to see if there were arcane traces, but I held myself back with a discipline born of a decade of summoning demons. This was not my scene, and I was here only because of my captain’s benevolence. I wasn’t about to risk getting kicked off before I had the chance to soak in as much experience as possible.

I did stretch out mentally to try to see and feel with my othersight, but I was almost fifty feet away from the body and I sure as shit wasn’t sensitive enough to feel anything from that far away, even if the arcane residue had been fresh and strong.

A petite crime-scene tech wearing dark-blue fatigue pants and a PD T-shirt came around the curve of the tank on the left, a sour look on her face as she wound up a long measuring tape.

Her expression cleared when she saw me. “Hey, chick!” she said brightly, giving me a wide smile. “Whatcha doing out here? I thought you were still in Property Crimes.”

I returned the smile. Crime Scene Technician Jill Faciane was not only an exceedingly cool person but she also knew what she was doing and wouldn’t screw the scene up or allow it to be screwed up. Jill had come over from New Orleans a couple of years after Katrina, bringing a wealth of experience and a sharp wit as well. A slender woman with short red hair and an elfin face, she had a determined set to her jaw, a quick smile, and keen blue eyes that were quick to notice details of scenes that escaped most others. She was also smart and sarcastic, which meant that she and I got along great.

“I was assigned to Violent Crimes three weeks ago,” I said. “And, since I’m pretty familiar with the Symbol Man cases, the captain gave me permission to come out and help.”

“Yeah, this is some insane shit! Here, make yourself useful,” she said, as she handed me one end of the measuring tape. “I have a bunch of measurements left, and those useless lugs over there,” she jerked her head toward a knot of people by the main building, “are too important to help get the scene processed.”

I held the end of the tape obediently. “They’re detectives. Come on, you don’t expect them to actually work, do you?”

“Ha!” she snapped, as she manhandled me to stand with the end of the tape near a pipe sticking out of the ground. “You’re a detective, and you work.”

“I know.” I gave a tragic sigh. “I think it’s holding me back too.”

She snickered, then trotted off to a point near the body, made a notation on her pad, and returned to me. “My God, you’d think the media could have come up with something more exciting than ‘Symbol Man.’”

“Well, it was a long time ago. In fact, it was right about the time I became a cop, seven years ago. And it was the big news for a while.”

“Stand by the fence,” she ordered, making more notes. “Well, this is seriously nasty stuff. And what’s the deal with the thing on her chest?”

I moved to the fence, holding my end of the measuring tape as if I’d been born to do it. “You mean the symbol? I don’t know what it is”—and that bugged the crap out of me as well—“but all the victims had that same symbol somewhere on their bodies, burned or carved into the flesh. Thirteen murders in four years, all linked together by that symbol. Then suddenly it just … stopped.” I shrugged and spread my hands, causing the measuring tape to flutter and earning myself a reproving scowl from Jill.

“Almost done,” she said, peering down at her notes. “Lemme get the distance to the gate. Have you seen a bunch of his victims?”

“Nope,” I replied, relocating to the gate. “By the time I became a detective, he’d stopped and it was a cold case, shoved to the bottom of the stack.” I slid a glance to the body, then looked back to Jill. “Didn’t help that his victims were homeless or drug addicts.”

Jill grimaced, rolling the tape up as she walked back to me. “So not much pressure to solve the cases.”

She’d pegged it. “Not much,” I said. “Once upon a time there was a semblance of a task force assigned to the case, but it was a lackluster effort.” I shrugged. “Without a lot of public outcry about the murders, local and federal agencies were less inclined to spend a lot of time or money on them. You know how it is.”

Her brow creased in annoyance. “Oh, yeah, do I.” She took the tape from me and shoved it into one of the side pockets of her fatigue pants. “So how do you know so much about the cases?”

“Got lucky, I guess. I’m brand-spanking-new in Violent Crimes—haven’t even been assigned my first case yet—so I figured I’d see what I could learn from reading old case files. Since the Symbol Man cases are still unsolved, I decided to start with them.” I didn’t mention my own long-standing desire to get my hands on those files. Until I was transferred to Violent Crimes, I’d had no way to justify the request, and, with the convergence approaching, I’d already made up my mind that I was going to find a way to get to those files by any means necessary. Fortunately, my transfer had come through in time and I’d been spared the need to break into the file room. “And since I had some spare time—”

“You what?” Jill chortled. “Y’all get spare time? Oh, man, I so need to transfer!”

“We can trade,” I replied. “How hard can your job be? Take some pictures, measure some stuff, maybe throw some fingerprint dust around.” Her eyes widened in mock outrage, and I laughed. “Anyway, Captain Turnham handed me a large box full of files, pictures, and notes and said, ‘Knock yourself out. Don’t let any of your other cases suffer.’”

“So you do have spare time!” she crowed.

“Nah. I just have no personal life.” I gave a helpless shrug. “Some people date. I bone up on local serial killers.”

“Dear God almighty,” she groaned. “You so need to get laid.” Her gaze shifted to a point behind me. “Well, here comes Crawford,” she said, before I could form a retort to her evaluation of my life.

Not that I had any idea of how to respond—especially since she was frustratingly correct. But there really wasn’t anything I could do about it. I had too many secrets to get intimate with just anyone, and I sure as hell couldn’t risk anyone finding out about the summoning chamber in my basement. I’d simply accepted that a dearth of companionship was one of the prices I paid to be a summoner of demons. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">