Spookshow V: Half-Boys and Gypsy Girls, page 11
“Now?” Billie shot to her feet. “It’s your night off?”
“Something came up. I have to go.” Mockler took a step in and pecked Jen’s cheek. “I’m sorry about this. Maybe Billie and I can make it up to you?”
“It’s okay,” Jen said. “We’ll do it another time.”
Mockler reached out to shake hands with Adam. “Can I ask a favour? Will you send a piece of that barbecue home with Billie? I really want to try it.”
Adam assured him that he would and Jen thanked him again for coming. Billie gripped Mockler’s hand and walked him outside. “Can’t someone else take the call?” she asked. “Whatever it is?”
“They said they wanted me on scene, so I gotta go.” He pulled her close. “I’m sorry.”
She pushed him away. “Go catch some bad guys.”
A quick kiss and then he marched to his car and Billie watched him drive away. Nothing would ever be normal, she realized. Not even a simple dinner at a friend’s house. A single thought kept buzzing in her brain like an insect trapped under glass. Would she and Mockler ever find time to just be a normal couple? Their track record did not foretell much hope.
Chapter 14
THE CALL WAS an unusual one. A break-and-enter at a church over on Sandford. Vandalism and destruction of property, but no body, no homicide. There hadn’t even been an assault. Pulling up to the scene, Mockler saw a single police cruiser present, but its cherries weren’t even flashing. Climbing out of the car, he couldn’t figure out why the hell he’d been called to the scene.
Two figures stood on the wide steps before the church of the Holy Redeemer, their shadows cast long against the light over the front doors. One was a uniformed officer, the other a priest.
“Walton?” Mockler called as he approached the pair.
Officer Kate Walton descended the steps to greet him. Walton was five foot four with a slight build that belied her strength. Mockler had seen her drop men twice her size without breaking a sweat. A good cop with keen senses with whom Mockler had worked before. She had been the one who called earlier.
“Hi, Mockler,” Officer Walton said. “Sorry to ruin your night off.”
“That’s okay. What do you got?”
Walton waved the cleric forward. “Detective, this is Father Ignacio Salvatore. Father, Detective Mockler.”
Mockler clocked the man’s age to be in the mid-50s, but his guess may have been skewed by the look of pale shock on the priest’s face. “Father,” Mockler said, shaking his hand. “I’m sorry to hear you had some trouble. Were you hurt?”
“No,” said Father Salvatore. “I’m fine. Physically at least. My heart may have taken a knock at what they’ve done, but I’m not hurt.”
Officer Walton nodded at the church before them. “Father Salvatore arrived about an hour ago to prepare for tomorrow. He found the doors broken in, the interior vandalized.”
“Vandalized is understating it,” the priest said. “What they did is obscene. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Detective Mockler noted again the shock rippling over the cleric’s eyes but he still wasn’t sure why he was here. “I see, but you didn’t see anyone inside? No one was hurt?”
Walton turned to the shaken priest. “Father, I’m going to take the detective inside. Do you want to stay out here?”
“Yes. I can’t look at that again.”
Walton wagged her chin at the entrance and Mockler followed her up the steps to the doors. “I’m still unclear why I’m here, Walton,” he said.
“I might be wrong about this, and, if I am, I apologize for wasting your time.” Walton led the way through the doors into the church. “But take a look at it first. Then, you tell me.”
The priest’s words were apt. It was obscene. To the west of the nave stood a tall statue of the virgin on a raised platform where the penitent would light candles at her feet. These small votives had been swept away under the dripping carcass of some animal. It took Mockler a few moments to even identify the animal in question. It had been butchered into slabs of fur and blood, its entrails cut out and unspooled over the platform. The quartered legs of the animal ended in cloven hooves. Its head had been removed.
“Hell of a sight,” Walton said quietly, observing the detective’s reaction. “The eyes on that thing really gives me the creeps.”
Breathing through the shock of it, Mockler studied the monstrous tableau. The head of the statue had been knocked clean off and it sat in a wet coil of intestines on the floor, the white plaster smeared with blood. The goat’s head now sat atop the statue, plopped onto the neck of the virgin. The eyes with horizontal pupils looked down as if regarding the two police officers before it.
“Jesus Christ,” grumbled Mockler.
“I’m surprised Father Salvatore didn’t have a heart attack seeing this.”
Mockler turned to the officer. “Did anyone see anything?”
“No one saw or heard anything unusual in the last few hours. Be careful where you step.” Walton pointed at his feet. “The blood here on the floor? I didn’t see it at first, but they wrote with it.”
The detective took a step back to take in the mess on the floor. The spatter wasn’t random, but it was difficult to make out. Climbing up onto a pew gave him enough of a perspective to hash out some of the blood pattern. One was a symbol, a triangle with what appeared to be hooks extended from it. The other splotchy pattern formed letters on the floor. SCRAAT.
“I have no idea what it means,” Officer Walton said. “Doesn’t sound like English.”
“Who knows.” Mockler took out his phone and snapped a couple photos of it before stepping down. “You still haven’t told me why you brought me in, Walty.”
The officer offered up a tiny shrug. “You’re the expert on this stuff.”
Why should he be surprised? The spooky rep was clinging to him like a bad smell, offensive and hard to shirk.
“It was that symbol, too,” she said. “We’ve seen it before. At that old house on Laguna Road, where you had the dust-up with the freaky people in robes.”
Mockler glanced at the uniformed officer and then dropped his gaze to the blood spatter again.
“I don’t know if it means anything, but I thought you’d want to see it.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.” Mockler leaned back against the pew and looked up at the goat’s head perched atop the statue. “You’re right about those eyes. Creepy-looking things.”
“Do you think there’s a connection between the two?”
I sure as hell hope not, he thought. The business at the Murder House was finished, the property bulldozed, but something of the same occult leanings linked the two as it also linked to the victim found in the woods lashed to a tree. The detective straightened up and turned to the officer. “You want some help processing the scene?”
“Chen and I can handle it. You can head home.”
“I don’t mind,” he said. “It’ll be more thorough with the three of us working it.”
Officer Walton smiled weakly. “Thanks. Let me get Chen and we’ll get started.”
With the officer gone, Mockler stood alone in the desecrated church with the horrific mess on the west wall. Turning away from it, he puzzled out the possible meaning of the words painted in blood, but could make no sense of them. Taking out his phone again, he started typing the word into a search engine when he heard something move.
One of the hooves was quivering.
The hind leg had been quartered at the hip, completely severed from the flank end, but it moved, the leg coiling up, the cloven hoof bending back. Mockler’s mouth went dry watching it undulate. The leg slipped from the platform and hit the floor with a wet thud, pulling down some of the tangled entrails with it.
The air went still, silence returning to the echo chamber of the church. Rationale demanded an answer and the detective skimmed through possibilities. A strange post-mortem seizing of the muscles? Early rigor mortis? A trick of the light?
When the severed goat’s head cried out, Mockler simply turned and walked out the door, unwilling to witness anymore madness. The sound of the goat bleating followed him all the way out and, just before he ducked outside, he could have sworn the dead thing was calling out the strange word written on the floor.
~
The sting was acute and quick, like a needle into her lower spine. Billie gasped and the glass fell from her hand. Adam startled as it broke, assuming the woman was tipsy.
“Someone’s had too many sidecars,” he guffawed, going to fetch the broom.
Jen looked at the mess on her floor first and then the pain stitched across Billie’s face. “Are you okay?”
“I’m sorry,” Billie said. She knelt down to pick up the broken glass. “I’m such a klutz.”
Jen fetched the garbage bin from under the sink. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. Just a cramp or something.” She dropped the glass shards into the bin. “I’m sorry, Jen. You went to so much trouble and the whole evening turned sour.”
“C’est la vie.” Jen reached out and touched her friend’s brow. “You look a little piqued. Do you want to lie down?”
“I think I’ll just go home before I wreck something else.” Billie regarded her friend with some surprise. She had expected Jen to get upset over the broken glass or the ruined evening, but she wasn’t. Her usually tightly wound friend seemed almost casual about the whole thing, dismissing it in French, no less. “You’re sweet for putting up with me.”
“Ditto,” Jen said, her eyes meeting her friend’s. There were fences that needed mending. “You sure you want to go?”
“I’m sure.”
Adam came with the broom to sweep up the finer shards. Jen rose to her feet. “Do you want to lift home?”
“I’ll cab it.” Billie tugged on her friend’s sleeve. “Walk me out?”
The night air was chilly as they stepped onto the porch. Billie slipped on her jacket and then turned to Jen. “I’m worried I’m going to screw this up.”
“With Ray?”
“I thought everything was going to be okay now. It’s all been so gonzo with him ever since we met, but when mom was found and laid to rest, I thought life would be normal again. Or at least not so complicated.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself, Bee. Things are always a bit odd when you start something new. It takes time to get to know one another.”
Billie looked out at the street, the houses on the far side. “That’s what I’m worried about. That he won’t like what he finds.”
“That’s your self-doubt creeping in again.” Jen reached out to fasten the top button on Billie’s jacket. “We both know you have to keep that in check. Give him some credit. He’s not the self-absorbed Peter Pan type you’re used to dating.”
Billie smiled, remembering what old friends were for. A quick hug and she shooed Jen back inside before she caught her death. She walked at a brisk pace up to Cannon Street but there wasn’t a cab in sight. A residual ache throbbed in her spine from the earlier sting, an emphatic connection to another person. Shared pain. Digging out her phone, she called Mockler.
“Hey,” she said when he picked up. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” he said on the other end. A little too quickly. “Why?”
“I dunno. I felt something. Thought you were in trouble.”
“Nope. Everything’s fine. How’s the dinner going?”
Something seemed odd about his tone, but she couldn’t be sure. “It was good. Quiet without you. I just left.”
“So soon?”
“It was time.” She squinted at the oncoming headlights, trying to spot a cab in the glare. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Did you apologize to Jen for my exit? I’m sorry I had to abandon you there.”
“She’s fine. She understands.” The street emptied of traffic and Billie marched on. “I hate this, Ray.”
“What? That I had to skip out?”
“No,” she interrupted him. “I’ve barely seen you in three days. And when I do, work takes you away from me.”
“I’m sorry. It stinks, but I can’t always skip out of it.”
“I know,” she said. The wind picked up and knifed clean through her thin clothes. She hadn’t dressed for the weather. “I just miss you and I’m tired of stuff getting in the way. Why can’t we be like a normal couple?”
“Maybe it’s just not in the cards.”
She hated that sentiment. And, in that moment, she decided to change the cards. Without thinking it through, she blurted out a crazy idea. “I’m staying at your place tonight. If I’m asleep when you get home, just curl up close to me. Deal?”
“Really?” His tone brightened immediately. “Are you sure?”
No.
“Yes,” she said. “Where do you hide your spare key?”
“Under the flower pot. The big one with the dead flowers.”
“Then, I’ll meet you at home, mister detective.”
“Deal.”
She could sense his grin all the way down the ethereal phone connection. A cab appeared on the horizon, trawling east in her direction. She said goodbye and hung up, waving at the cab to stop. Climbing into the warm cab, the driver looked at her. “Where to?”
“Bristol Street.”
Chapter 15
THE SPARE KEY wasn’t under the flower pot. Billie put it back down and wondered if Mockler had forgotten it wasn’t there. Had someone else used it? Looking over the porch, she looked under the mat and under the wicker chair, but no house key appeared. She fumed for a moment, feeling foolish and then went back to the big flower pot and tilted it over, but there was still nothing under it. Running her hand over the bottom of the pot, the key dislodged from the dirt it was stuck to and tumbled to the ground.
Crinkly leaves blew inside as she let herself in. The foyer was dark, the house beyond it as quiet as a tomb. She knew the house was empty, but couldn’t quell her need to announce her arrival. Was that simple propriety or paranoia?
“Hello?”
The push of the wind against the window pane was the only sound. Turning on the lights, Billie crossed to the kitchen. The squeak of the old floorboards seemed shriekingly loud inside the vacant house. The kitchen was unchanged since she’d last seen it. Half-empty cupboards and two chairs stranded without a table. It still had the feel of a transient home.
Placing the key on the counter, she put the kettle on and opened cupboard after cupboard looking for the tea. There wasn’t any. Mockler was more of a coffee drinker. Any tea in this kitchen belonged to the woman who used to live here and she had cleaned the place out when she left. Annoyed, Billie kept scrounging. She uncovered a jar of honey and noted two stray lemons on the counter. She’d fix that instead. The plan was simple. Make something hot to warm up and crash in front of the television until Mockler got home.
Did Mockler even have a TV?
Crossing into the living room, she took in the vintage suite he had salvaged for her, the mid-century modern stuff she liked. She still hadn’t given him an answer about moving in together. The question was sure to come up tonight or in the morning. Tonight, she decided, would be a test. Maybe she could ease into the place and learn to live with its former history and old ghosts.
There was no television. In its place was a computer monitor atop a wooden box, the feed jerry-rigged into the cable. The screen turned blue when she hit the power button but there was no remote, no way to toggle a dial. She powered it off.
She wandered into the next room and hit the light switch. The dining room was empty save for a box on the floor and a broom leaning against the wall. A veil of warmth passed over her and she heard the faintest tickle of laughter in her ear. Residual energy from some moment of joy that had occurred in this room. Its intensity surprised her. She had kept her abilities closed off for days now, but something within the house was breaking through. Or was she unconsciously letting it come through. Biting down harder, the warmth and laughter evaporated. She didn’t want to know what the occasion was that caused such joy. Had it been a birthday or some other celebration? Had he proposed to Christina in this room over a candlelit dinner? Maybe they had christened the dining room by having sex on the table?
Stop.
Billie stepped out of the room and killed the light. It amazed her how quickly her own thoughts could spin into poison that she was more than ready to guzzle down until she was sick. Go back to the sofa, find something to read and chill.
When she was little, her cuts and scrapes never healed properly because Billie couldn’t resist picking at the scabs. As a woman facing her 30s, little had changed. She crossed the hall to the sunroom at the back. This room had been the art studio of the former woman of the house. The residual energy in this room was powerful and it ran hot.
She could almost see Christina in the room, working intensely at the easel, her eyes flushed with passion as if possessed. Despair ran alongside in an opposing stream of emotion. There the artist flung the canvas across the room and collapsed into a heap of self-loathing so deep it goosed the hair on Billie’s forearms. Emotions of every colour ran electric in this studio like exposed wires, sparking and flaring as they crossed. There had been lovemaking in this room, but there had also been terrible fights, voices shrill with rage and booming with fury. The mixture of it all was as volatile as quicksilver and Billie thought she would choke on it.
Backing quickly from the room, she shut the French doors to the studio and hurried out the back door to breathe. The cold air flushed the toxic mix of emotions away. Off-balance, she lowered herself to the stoop and looked out over the backyard. There was energy out here too, but it felt different. His energy, she’d recognize it anywhere. He must have spent a lot of time out here alone. She wondered if the yard was where he came to put aside the day’s misery and find some peace.
Did she honestly think she could ever live here? She didn’t know if she would last a single night. What was she going to tell him?
