All is a riddle, and the
key to a riddle ... is another riddle.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
6
My cell phone rarely rang. And when it
did, it was generally bad news. But I answered it, anyway, with a
cheery “Hellooooo?!” because I’m strange that way.
“Your mother’s run away!” Katie’s
screech just about perforated my eardrum.
After switching the phone to the other
ear, the one with all vital bits intact, I reasoned, “I’m sure she
didn’t run away. She just went out ... to get some food ... or
something.” I checked the clock on my computer’s desktop. It was
almost five already. Where was JT? Had he forgotten about me? Or
had he decided I was useless and continued the investigation
without me?
“She left a note. But it’s in some kind
of crazy code, and I can’t read it. Someone who’s gone out for
bagels and coffee doesn’t leave an encoded note
behind.”
I couldn’t help chuckling. “I thought
you knew my mother by now.”
“I do.” After a beat, Katie said,
“Please come home and take a look. I’m worried.”
Argh!
I glanced at the Clock of Doom, then at
Gabe, who was still parked in the cubicle behind me. Shortly after
dropping the bomb about having joined the team, he’d run home to
get his laptop, and he was now gleefully tap-tap-tapping on his keyboard. As much as I wanted to
believe he was playing some stupid online game, I had a feeling he
was doing something else. Something that would make me look even
more pathetic to the rest of the team than I already
did.
“Okay. I’ll be there in a few.” I
shoved my Netbook into its case, looped the strap over my shoulder,
and trudged to the elevators. On the way home, I reminded myself
that my mom’s brain worked very differently from mine and Katie’s.
She wasn’t missing, hadn’t run away, and would most likely be safe
and sound in my cozy-but-electricity-free apartment by the time I
got home.
She wasn’t.
Katie met me at the door, waving a
piece of paper like it was a ransom note. “I just know she’s in
trouble. Can you read it? What’s it say?”
“No, I can’t read it. Not when you’re
flinging it around like that.” After several failed attempts, I
finally caught my melodramatic roommate’s wrist, halting its
frantic motion. “Thank you for worrying about my mother. I’m sure
she’s okay.” I gently plucked the paper from Katie’s hand and
wandered into the living room, staring at the bizarre characters on
the page:
BEWARE THE LIGHT
THAT FLICKERS IN THE NIGHT.
I recognized the script right away.
Theban—aka the Witches’ Alphabet.
I flopped onto the couch, set the paper
on the coffee table, and pulled out my Netbook. “I thought I’d told
you, when I was a kid, my mom and I used to play this game, writing
everything—even the grocery list—in code. We tried to stump each
other. But it’s been ages since either of us has done
that.”
“No, you never said anything about
codes.” Standing with one foot in the kitchen and one foot in the
living room, Katie chomped into a peanut butter and banana
sandwich. “If you had, I wouldn’t have freaked out. You know how I
get with your mother.”
“Sorry.” I swear, Katie worried about
Mom more than I did sometimes. It was both a good and bad
thing.
“So, can you read it?” She washed down
the mouthful of bread, peanut butter, and banana with a chug of
diet soda.
“My mother only used Theban once
before, when I was about seven or eight. I remember the script well
enough to recognize it, but I can’t read it. Not without a little
help.” I powered up my Netbook. “Luckily, it’s common enough that I
should be able to find it on the Net.” I connected to my fave
search engine, and within seconds, I had the key to unlock my mom’s
note. “‘Beware the light that flickers in the night’?” I read
aloud. I sighed. My heart sank to my toes.
“What the hell does that mean?” Katie
took another bite of her sandwich.
I sighed again. “It means it’s
definitely time to make another visit to Mom’s doctor.
When—if—she comes back.”
Katie gave my shoulder a pat. “Sorry,
hon.”
“I guess you were right, after all.
There is reason to worry. Damn it, I was hoping this medication was
going to work.” I dropped my face into my hands, indulging in a
mini pity party. This had been going on for so long. I was tired of
it all. Tired of the “accidents,” which had, over the years, cost
me tens of thousands of dollars. Tired of the periodic
disappearances, which cost me hours, days, months of worry—not to
mention time, while I tracked her down. Tired of the constant
struggle to drag my mother out of the darkness, which was always
there, waiting for an opportunity to steal her away.
I loved my mother, but I hated her
disease. Despised it.
It was a faceless, formless monster,
ruthless and cunning. How I wished it could be slain like the
vampires I’d read about in that stupid book Chief Peyton had given
me.
Vampires could be killed with a
strategically placed wooden stake or a shower of holy water.
Real-life monsters weren’t so easily defeated.
Katie’s arm wrapped around my shoulder.
Sitting beside me, she pulled me up against her side. “You know
I’ll help.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” After I’d pulled myself
together—didn’t take too long, thank God—I glanced around the
living room. “Did you notice anything else? Did she make another
invention? Leave any other notes? Did she take anything with
her?”
“I don’t know... .”
The two of us began a search of our
apartment, looking for clues to where my mother might have gone.
Katie started in the kitchen; I headed for my bedroom. I discovered
Mom had borrowed some changes of clothing, a pair of shoes, and a
duffel bag. She’d also taken her toothbrush. Katie found she’d
taken a small set of tools and a can of insect
repellent.
I decided I’d check out Mom’s apartment
first. With luck, she’d simply gone back there. Katie rode shotgun.
Neither of us said a word. We’d been through this more than enough
to know what the next step would be if we didn’t find her by
morning.
I used the spare key to get into Mom’s
apartment. It was dark and quiet, the shades drawn, shutting out
the gradually fading sunlight. It didn’t look like she was here
now, but I saw something promising on the couch. My duffel bag. I
hurried to it. “She’s been here. I’m guessing she’s coming
back.”
“OhthankGod!” Katie said, her
breathless exclamation echoing my own. “I wonder why she just up
and left, without saying anything?”
“That’s Mom for you.” I unzipped the
bag and searched through the contents. Everything was there, but
one set of clothes and the shoes. “She changed out of her
pajamas.”
“I wonder where she went?” Katie headed
down the narrow hallway leading to the small bedroom in the back.
Just as I was about to follow Katie, Mom came strolling in, a pair
of green canvas grocery bags hanging from her
shoulders.
“Sloan? What’re you doing here?” Mom
headed toward the kitchen with the bags.
Following her, I said, “Looking for
you. Why’d you leave? Katie was worried.”
“I got a call this afternoon. Power’s
on.” Mom hit the wall switch, and the light hanging over her little
dinette set illuminated. “As much as I love staying with you, I’d
rather be here where I have a microwave, refrigerator, and
television. You know how I hate to miss my shows.”
I was so relieved, I could’ve cried. In
fact, I kind of did this little laugh/sob thing. Katie rushed into
the room, visibly biting back a rant. Together we helped Mom put
away her groceries. Once that was done, my mother pulled a bag of
marijuana from her pocket and headed for the couch.
“Mom, before we head out, what did you
mean by that message?”
“Which message?” she asked as she
dumped a mountain of dried leaves onto a paper plate sitting on her
coffee table. I hated watching her smoke illegal drugs, but many,
many years ago we’d come to an agreement. As long as she smoked in
the privacy of her home, I wouldn’t interfere.
I said, “The one you wrote in Theban.
‘Beware the light that flickers in the night.’”
Mom shrugged. “I don’t recall leaving a
message, let alone one written in Theban. I haven’t used Theban in
years. I’m not even sure I remember it well enough to compose a
message. Are you sure it was from me?”
“If it wasn’t you, who would it
be?”
“I don’t know, Sloan. It’s very
curious. A riddle.” She shrugged as she sprinkled a line of crushed
leaves onto a piece of cigarette paper. “You’ll figure it out, I’m
sure. You’ve always been very good at riddles.”
I exchanged a look with Katie. “Okay. I
guess we’ll head home. Mom, remember our agreement.”
Licking the paper to seal her freshly
rolled joint, she waved her good-bye.
“Where did you find that note?” I asked
Katie as we trotted out to my car.
“In the living room, on the top shelf,
you know, under the window.” Katie rounded the car, asking over the
top, “Are you still worried about your mom? It had to be her,
right? She must’ve forgotten she’d written the note.”
“I’m not sure what to think. Like I
said before, it’s been a long time since she’s used Theban. She
might be telling the truth.”
Katie slipped into the passenger seat,
giving me a bug-eyed look. “If she is telling the truth, then
what?”
“Then I guess we’d better figure out
what the message means.”
On the way home, Katie and I generated
a list of lights that flicker in the night. By the time we’d walked
into our apartment, we’d concluded I needed to beware of everything
from fireflies to stars ... and the neon sign in front of the party
store down the street, and the lamp in our living room that
sputtered when it was bumped—when we had electricity—and candles,
and campfires, and ... at least fifty more things.
Danger was all around me.
Being the daughter of a paranoid
schizophrenic, I knew being afraid of everything was no way to
live.
The first thing I did when I got home
was to check the window in the living room—the one above the shelf
where the note had been found. It was shut, but the lock didn’t
work; there was also a very suspicious rip in the screen. I wedged
a big book in the frame to keep an intruder from opening it, ate a
peanut butter and potato chip sandwich—I was running out of ideas
for new and exciting peanut butter–based sandwich ideas
fast—guzzled my lukewarm caffeine-free cola, brushed my teeth, and
settled into bed. Katie slept with a tire iron and a
battery-powered soldering iron. I drifted off to dreamland with
nary a thought of dangerous flickering things.
It was back, the dark
thing. It had sucked the life out of the air in the room, the
warmth, the oxygen, leaving it a cold, empty vacuum. Pretending to
be asleep, she silently prayed for it to leave her alone this
time.
Why did it keep coming
back?
An icy gust drifted
over her face, neck shoulders. Goose bumps prickled. The stench of
death burned her nose; the scent of rotting flesh growing so
strong, her throat closed. Fighting the urge to gag, she rolled
into a ball, wrapping her arms around her bent legs. Something
sharp touched her shoulder, piercing the skin.
No. Not again. Please.
Hootie & the Blowfish’s “Only Wanna
Be with You” woke me at 5:00 A.M. The
snappy tune almost wiped out the lingering images in my mind, of a
little girl trembling in her bed, a shadowed form standing over
her. It was exactly the same as the nightmare I’d had the other
night. Creepy. Unsettling. I’d thought the first nightmare had been
caused by all that talk about vampires, and that book, The Vampire Encyclopedia. But last night, there’d been
no mention of bloodsuckers of any kind.
Very strange.
Sluggish, and needing a hefty dose of
caffeine, I went through my morning ritual—minus the blow-drying of
the hair. Instead, I gathered it, wet, into what I hoped was a tiny
knot on the back of my head and used enough pins to keep it in
place in a hurricane. After fluffing on a little blush and slicking
some lip gloss on my lips, I put on a bland pair of black pants, a
white blouse, and black pumps and stumbled out into the early
morning a good two hours before Katie would resume
consciousness.
Today I wouldn’t be the last one in the
office.
After making a quick stop at a 7-Eleven
for a coffee, I headed into work.
Gabe was already there. Worse than
that, he was having a friendly chitchat with Chief Peyton. Even
from a distance, I could see he was using his mojo on her ... and
it seemed to be working. Since I’d started with the PBAU, I hadn’t
ever seen the chief smile. Not that she’d looked unhappy or
mean—she’d just always exuded discipline and
authority.
Not now.
Was that an eyelash bat?
I threw up a little in my mouth. This
was wrong on so many levels.
I dumped my stuff on my desk, plopped
into my chair, and quickly consumed my pathetic excuse for a
breakfast while waiting for my computer to power up. I eat fast; my
Netbook runs slow. By the time I had my fave sites loaded on my
browser, JT was strolling in, looking fresh and scrumptious and
ready for work.
The chief paid me a visit while I was
reading an article on infectious diseases on ResearchGate.com. “Good morning, Skye.
We’ve had some interesting developments in our case. How did you
and JT make out yesterday?”
Interesting wording—“make
out”?
Wishing I had something earthshaking to
tell her, I shook my head. “We didn’t get much. There is an
ex-fiance who’s—”
“Hold off on the update until we’re all
together.” She lifted a hand, halting me midsentence. “We’re all
here. Conference room. In ten. For a briefing.”
“Okay.” The minute the chief had
wandered off to talk to someone else, I headed for JT’s cubicle. He
was on the phone; I pretended I wasn’t trying to listen in, and
watched the rest of the team going about their morning rituals. I
didn’t rap on his divider until after he’d ended the call. “Hey,” I
said.
“Hey.” His smile made my insides do
cartwheels. Would I ever get over this crush? “Did you get anywhere
yesterday?”
“Not really, but Brittany dug up
something interesting on Chapman. McRoy also uncovered some
information on Deborah Richardson. Which first, Richardson or
Chapman?”
“Chapman,” I said.
“He has a sealed juvenile record and a
more recent conviction for stalking a coworker.”
That was interesting, indeed. “Okay.
He’s no Boy Scout, but we don’t have any concrete reason to believe
he had anything to do with his ex-fiancée’s death ... yet. Now,
what about Richardson?”
“She just wrapped up a very messy
divorce a couple of months ago.”
I was confused. “Divorce? Didn’t
Chapman say they’d been engaged for over two
years?”
“Yep. Evidently, she was engaged to
Chapman while she was married.”
And my mother wondered why I was in no
hurry to get married? Although I wanted to believe two people could
fall in love and stay in love for the rest of their lives, I had
yet to see it. Was anyone happily married these days? “Okay, so we
have a potentially pissed-off ex-husband, an ex-fiancé who wasn’t
ready to be an ex, a dead woman who hasn’t been sick a day in the
last several months but died from dengue hemorrhagic
fever—”
“And hasn’t ever traveled out of the
country,” JT added.
“About that. This morning, I checked
the statistics of dengue hemorrhagic fever infections in the United
States. According to CDC data, contact between the Aedes mosquito
and U.S. residents is so limited that the vast majority of cases of
dengue in the States is acquired elsewhere by travelers and
immigrants. The last documented outbreak of dengue in the
continental U.S. was in Southern Texas in 2005. A small outbreak
occurred in Hawaii in 2001. No other outbreaks have been verified
since. However, dengue is a significant problem in parts of South
America. Do we know if our victim has traveled to Texas recently?
Or Hawaii?”
“We don’t, but we can find out. I’m
sure the CDC is working the case. They may know the method of
transmission already.”
Noticing the other team members were
moving toward the conference room, I glanced at the clock. “I guess
we’d better get in there.”
“Yep.”
“The chief said there were some
interesting developments in the case last night. Do you know
anything about that?” I asked.
“Nope.” He motioned for me to go first.
I led the way to the conference room, checking the Clock of Doom on
my way to a seat. Two hours, thirty-eight minutes.
Would somebody else really die when
that clock ticked down to the last minute?
Chief Peyton cleared her throat and
gave the room a somber-faced sweep with her eyes. She really did
have a flair for the dramatic. Despite my cynicism, I found myself
sliding to the edge of my seat.
“First, we have identified all three
victims. Their names are Debbie Richardson, Hannah Grant, and the
most recent victim is Laura Miller. In addition, we have determined
in the last few hours that all three deaths are indeed murders,”
she announced gravely. “We are dealing with a serial killer. There
are some issues with the DNA analysis, but the lab found foreign
saliva on the victims’ necks, and they were able to extract DNA. It
matches in all three cases.”
Identical DNA. Huh. That was hard to
dismiss.
But did it prove inconclusively that
the victims were murdered?
“In addition,” she continued, “upon
further examination of the bodies, proof of a struggle,
specifically skin and blood under the fingernails, was discovered.
The DNA from that material matched the samples found at the
neck.”
I glanced at the clock.
If what the chief was saying was true,
in exactly two hours, thirty-one minutes, and seventeen seconds,
someone else was going to die.