Mind of the Phoenix, page 20
“Is that how she died?” The sound of Keenan’s voice surprises me with its proximity, reminding me of the way his lips had felt against my neck. I mentally shake myself, aware that this is neither the time nor the place to think about that memory.
Dr. White looks at the body and shakes his head, gesturing to the marks on her neck. “No, she was strangled.” He then lifts up one of Rebekah’s hands. “There is blood beneath her fingernails, which suggests that she fought her assailant.”
“That’s probably why he hit her,” I suggest, my anger rising.
“Perhaps,” says Dr. White. “It could have been done in an attempt to subdue her while–” He breaks off abruptly, clearly not comfortable with finishing his thought.
“Can you see if there is an afterimage, Moira?” asks Keenan.
I nod and place my hand hesitantly on the side of the woman’s face, careful not to touch the blood. I close my eyes and push my way through the darkness. A scene flashes before my mind before vanishing. I see the end of the alley, and then the scene shifts as if Rebekah has turned her head. I catch sight of a dark figure standing in front of her before an object shoots across at her and smashes in the side of her head. Her vision blurs, and I return to the mortuary.
“A revolver,” I blurt, cringing away from the body. “He hit her with the end of a revolver because she had been running away from him.”
Dr. White makes a noise. “I had thought it might have been that.”
“Did you see the killer?”
“No,” I reply in frustration. “It was too dark, again.”
The detective regards the body gloomily and then turns to the other man. “Thank you, Dr. White.”
Before we exit, I hastily scrub my hands with soap and hope that there won’t be more dead bodies I’ll have to touch. We walk out of the mortuary and my stomach growls loudly, protesting against my decision to skip breakfast. The sound is loud enough to catch the detective’s attention and I can feel his eyes on me. I try to cover my embarrassment by busily climbing into the motor vehicle. He sits beside me and begins to drive, but, instead of driving back to the police station, he turns the other way.
“Where are we going?”
He glances sideways at me. “To get something to eat.”
He stops in front of the café that we had eaten at several days ago, and I’m amazed by how long ago that seems. I believe that was the day when I began to slowly earn the detective’s trust by choosing not to read his mind when he touched me.
I follow him to the back of the café near the windows and smile when he sits at the exact table we had occupied the last time. He removes his coat, hanging it on a nearby coat rack, and rests his cane against the window. I remove my coat as well and sit across from him. He slowly places his bowler hat on the table and sighs. The slight sound speaks volumes, even if I’m the only one able to hear it. He’s looking worn out again and his index finger begins softly tapping the table. The combination of these two cases is obviously eating away at him. I suspect that in many ways he feels responsible for Rebekah Gray’s death because he hadn’t caught the murderer in time. I’m struck with the need to comfort him and tell him that it’s not his fault, but I’m not sure how.
It is in that moment that I fully understand why he hadn’t said anything in regards to the memory I showed him. Comforting someone should be such a simple act, yet it’s so complicated. You want to offer the person soothing words born of sympathy and compassion, but they seem too meagre for such a colossal sadness. The sound of ‘I’m sorry’ isn’t enough, and is a paltry expression for the pain the person has experienced. But then how do you let the other person know that you are there for them?
I decide then that in many ways physical contact speaks more than words, so I tentatively place my hand over the detective’s and hope that he doesn’t snap at me for touching him without an invitation. A loud drumming sound reverberates in my chest at the contact, and I watch his reaction carefully. Those green eyes, bright from the sunlight streaming through the window, immediately dart toward my hand on top of his and narrow, probably thinking that I intend to invade his mind. Yet he doesn’t retract his hand, and his eyes rise to meet mine. I try not to squirm beneath his unyielding gaze, but fail. How is it that a simple look can contain the same amount of intimacy as a scintillating touch?
“What can I get you, sir?” asks a voice beside me, startling me so much that my hand jumps away from Keenan’s. The server glances at me, curious about my behaviour and the fact that I’m an empath.
“Coffee with the egg platter,” answers the detective calmly, obviously not startled by the server’s sudden appearance.
I order the same thing when the server asks me. I’m embarrassed, because I had yelped pathetically when the server had spoken. My head feels slightly dizzy from shock and from the way Keenan had been looking at me. Thankfully, he doesn’t mention what just happened and, instead, discusses the case.
“The man who killed Ginny and Rebekah is impulsive,” he says thoughtfully. “The first time, his plan played out the way he wanted, but, with Rebekah, I believe he wasn’t expecting her to fight back. And that’s why he had to hit her with his revolver. He could have shot her, but someone would have heard–”
“And would have interrupted him,” I supply. “So, we’re looking for a man who likes to be in control, perhaps insecure, and likes to rape women because it makes him feel superior.”
“Yes, he enjoys what he’s doing,” Keenan says. “He could have gone to the pleasure house to satiate his desires, but I don’t think he agrees with the fact that he has to pay for a woman’s service. And, despite the pleasure house’s many flaws, I know they wouldn’t allow their clients to kill their property.”
“Of course,” I say, smiling deviously. “That would just be bad business.”
“He’s killed twice already in less than two weeks,” he says, and he begins his usual pensive behaviour by tapping the tablecloth. “He’s getting rather impulsive and arrogant. He’s going to mess up somewhere, and when he does it’ll be too late for him.”
“Well, I want to catch this bastard.”
The server returns to pour our coffee, and then leaves. I dispense cream and sugar into the cup and slowly stir, watching the dark liquid turn a lighter shade. I glance up at the detective and notice that he’s watching me stir my coffee with an unusual raptness. At first, I assume that he is lost in thought, but his gaze appears too focused on my hand to be daydreaming. I take a hesitant sip, and he carefully watches my every move.
“So, what did you think of Miss Josephine?” I ask.
He takes a sip of his black coffee. “Are you asking me if I thought her to be amiable, Moira? Or are you asking if I thought her to be attractive?”
His eyes are glimmering with amusement, so I roll my eyes in feigned annoyance. “No, detective, I’m asking you what you think about Mr. Harrison placing her as the Pleasure House Instigator.”
He narrows his brows in thought. “It’s unusual. An empath has never been an instigator before.”
“Is she Mr. Harrison’s property?”
“Yes,” he says. “She’s one of his blockers, but, despite that, I agree with Mr. Harrison’s decision to keep the position filled by a woman.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I have no doubt that if it were a male member of the Elite, they would take advantage of their role as instigator,” answers the detective.
Our food is placed on the table, and we fall silent as we eat. I realize that despite having just seen a dead body, I still have a healthy appetite, and I wonder if that says something negative about me. I shake my head and decide that it is the first rule of survival. If you don’t eat, you don’t survive. Satisfied, I take another sip of my coffee. I’m no longer merely skin and bones, and my strength has returned. I could maybe try to escape sometime soon, but to be honest I want Ginny Parker and Rebekah Gray’s killer caught. The detective was right in that emotions are dangerous when it comes to an investigation. Emotions are volatile—ticking time bombs that can be set off by the simplest thing. It can even be something as simple as a look.
“Aren’t you lonely, detective?” I probe, and he looks up at me.
“Why do you ask that?”
“Well, you’re not married and you don’t have a female companion,” I explain. “I just find it hard to believe that you haven’t taken advantage of the services that the pleasure house provides.”
He slowly lowers his fork and sits back in his chair, those green eyes bright with an emotion I can’t quite get a handle on. “And why would that be hard to believe?”
Perhaps the emotion is anger? Or annoyance?
“Well, you’re a man–”
“Yes, I am,” he interjects quietly, and I feel like he might be mocking me.
I continue, using the phrase that Mr. Hayes had used to justify his visits to the pleasure house. “And you have needs–”
“And what needs would those be?” Definitely anger.
“No need to be angry, detective,” I say. “I was just saying that everyone has needs that–”
“Do you have such needs?” he asks quietly, and I stare at him. How has he managed to turn this on me?
I’m incapable of looking away from his eyes and feel trapped.
“Yes.”
“So, if you could visit the pleasure house would you pay for one of the males to satisfy those needs?” When I don’t answer, he continues, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “They would do anything you ask them to, Moira. They’ll even be whoever you want them to be. Do you prefer blonds or brunettes? Or, perhaps, you like the rarity of a redhead.”
I’m completely speechless—he’s used my exact words against me.
My mind involuntarily travels back to Devin. Men and women alike pay for his services, and I had always been dumbfounded that someone so physically strong could be used in such a way. Of course, he never had a choice, just like me. I miss those strong arms around me, the feel of his broad torso pressed against my back. He was always there to comfort me when I needed it, and I miss him. Comfort, love, a connection—those are things people desire just as much as sex, sometimes even more. Those are things you can’t buy. I hadn’t understood that then, and I hate myself for it. Devin had known it all along. And I can’t help but think once again that some things you want given.
“No, I wouldn’t,” I reply softly, knowing I could never demand that Devin do something he didn’t want to, or be someone he wasn’t.
“And why is that, Moira?” he questions, the anger fading.
“You know why.”
“I doubt that I could fully understand your reasons,” he states. “And I wouldn’t want to assume that I do, so I’d rather you enlighten me.”
“Because having been in that situation I wouldn’t want to subject anyone to it,” I elaborate, irritated that he has forced me to say it out loud.
“Is that the only reason?” I don’t know why I bother trying to hide things from him when nothing escapes him. He knows that there is more to my answer and he’s demanding that I reveal it all.
“No,” I respond, annoyed. “And because you can get that and much more from someone without having to pay them.”
He stares at me for a moment, his gaze flickering between my hazel eye and blue one. “My thoughts exactly,” he murmurs softly.
We leave the café and head back to the police station. I feel like something has shifted between me and the detective, yet it’s something I don’t understand. I wish I could visit Devin and let him know that I finally realize what he had been trying to tell me all along. He’s probably found another, and the idea fills me with sadness. The Chief pulls Keenan aside for a moment and I slump into an empty chair, feeling despondent. Then Constable Bradford walks by, and I notice a long scratch on his neck. He seems angry today instead of his usual arrogant self.
“What happened to you, constable?” I question mockingly. “Who did you fight with?”
He glances at me coldly. “My ma’s damn cat.”
I laugh, surprising him. For some reason I can’t envision him having a mother, and I pity the woman who had to raise this self-satisfied ass. “What did you do, try to pet it?”
“Something like that,” he mutters, his lips curving in a devious smile.
I have no doubt that Constable Bradford enjoys punishing women, subjecting them to intense pain for his gratification just like the Memory House Instigator. Thankfully, Keenan returns and gestures for me to step into his office. Constable Bradford winks at me before I turn away and I can feel his eyes on my ass as I walk away.
I’m not surprised when the detective lights a cigarette the moment he sits behind his desk. “Mr. Anderson has agreed to bring Daniel to the police station for further questioning tomorrow,” he says, exhaling a cloud of smoke.
“Do you really think reading the phrase will open the door?”
He shrugs. “It’s worth a try,” he answers, drumming the side of his chair. “April seventh is less than two weeks from now.”
I nod solemnly, knowing that if we don’t find the Phoenix before April seventh another person will die. I deduce that Mr. Anderson is most likely the next victim, and I wonder if I’m sorry about that. An image of the many women back at the pleasure house who were unfortunate enough to be chosen as one of his subjects flashes before my mind, and I decide that I don’t feel any sympathy toward him. Perhaps his impending doom is karma for the marks he left on the women’s bodies.
“So what happens when we solve the case?”
No one has exactly explained to me what will happen once the Phoenix is found. The Chief had said that my sentence would be eradicated, but there was no mention about whether or not I’d be placed back in the cell, or the pleasure house. If they intend to put me in either, I will attempt to escape.
He stops tapping his finger and looks at me. “The Phoenix will be executed.”
“I figured that,” I say impatiently. “I meant what will happen to me?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” he says. “Mr. Harrison has said that he’s willing to halt your execution, but I haven’t been informed of his decision about what would happen next. To be honest, I’m not sure he knows himself, and I think the outcome has a lot to do with you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I wouldn’t try to run away, Moira.”
I narrow my eyes. “Is that a threat, detective?”
He exhales a cloud of smoke and then says, “No, it’s a request.”
16
Mr. Anderson enters the police station, followed by Daniel, and already I know that both men are angry at having to be here. The former nods curtly at Keenan and then glances at me with apparent dislike, while the latter stares at me with a possessive glint in his clear blue eyes, disregarding the detective entirely.
“I thought you had already interrogated my blocker, detective,” says Mr. Anderson, not bothering to hide his annoyance. He’s still upset with Keenan for raising his voice at him in his home when we had visited, and has every intention of asserting his dominance over him.
“We’ve recently come across new information that involves Daniel.”
“And she’s going to read his mind again?” asks Mr. Anderson, his black eyes examining me.
I want to laugh because, despite everything that has happened, this man still wants me. I’m a conquest. Perhaps if I behaved more submissively he wouldn’t desire me any longer. But defeat is not in my nature.
“Yes,” responds Keenan. “Now, if you would please wait out here while we question Daniel in private.”
“Fine,” he huffs, and turns away.
The detective gestures for Daniel to enter the interrogation room, and as the blocker walks by me he says, “I’ve been hoping I’d see you again, Moira.”
“I’m sure there are plenty of women at the pleasure house you could torment instead,” I suggest, walking into the room behind Keenan.
“No,” he says. “None of them are like you.”
Keenan turns to him and says, “We haven’t requested your presence here for you to talk to Moira–”
“Oh, believe me, detective, talk is the last thing I want to do when it comes to Moira,” interrupts Daniel, sitting down. “I’d much rather–”
“I suggest you think before you finish that sentence,” warns the detective quietly, those green eyes bright with fury.
“Now why would I do that?” asks the other man, smiling venomously at him.
Before he can respond, I interject. “Oh, do shut up, Daniel. I think you enjoy hearing the sound of your own voice way too much.” I smile, knowing that what I say next will infuriate the man. “I, for one, would much rather hear something pleasant—like the detective’s voice, for instance.”
“Is that right, Moira?” taunts Daniel, his eyes narrowing. “And how is the detective in bed?”
Okay. I have to admit I wasn’t expecting that, and I don’t know whether to laugh or stare at the man dumbfounded. “I didn’t realize you were interested in men, Daniel,” I say breezily, and his eyes flash with anger. “But I really don’t think the detective swings that way.”
“I–”
“I’ve had quite enough,” Keenan interrupts. “Moira, find the door.”
I nod and focus on penetrating Daniel’s barriers. He resists just like last time, not liking the idea of me being near that door again. He thinks I’m going to try to force my way in, and I relish his fear.
“What do you mean?” he asks, his face transforming into horror. “I told you that if she tries to break down the door she could ruin both my mind and whatever is locked behind it!”
I pierce through, and Daniel’s jaw clenches.
“We may have found a way to open the door,” Keenan informs him. “If it doesn’t work, then we won’t do any damage.”
I know that Daniel has consented before it’s apparent on his face. He’s just as curious to know what’s behind the door as we are. He’s intrigued and infuriated that someone has managed to enter his mind and place what seems to be a memory block. It would have to be someone who is stronger than Daniel, and talented with blocking memories.
