“Hoi, over here!” one of the techs yelled suddenly as he pivoted one of the portable lights. “Got something stuck between the cedar planks.” Using forceps, he carefully maneuvered a used condom out from between two planks. The tech glanced up, eyes sharp and bright with the impact of his find. “He might have tried to clean up behind himself, but he missed this one.”
“We gots him,” whispered Holgersen, staring at the condom.
“Only if he’s in the system,” said Maddocks.
“Yeah, but we gots his DNA profile now, man. Either fucking way, we find us a viable suspect, and he matches the semen calling card in that little baggie there, and we gots us our Baptist.”
THE BAPTIST
... for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.
—Romans 3:23
Naked, he sits on a small metal chair in the center of the basement. He’s turned the furnace up to max, and the space is hot as a devil’s little hell, his pale skin slick with sweat. It’s dark, but he’s lit white candles for effect. Like the ones in church. Like the ones in the root cellar. They flicker now in little glass jars. Like they shimmered and danced those nights on the island.
He plants the soles of his feet squarely on the floor, splaying his muscular thighs wide to expose his groin. His mother is positioned in a more comfortable chair directly ahead of him so she can watch, but not so close that she can touch.
Softly, he feathers the lock of Gracie’s hair across his penis. At the first tickle—the sensitive skin in that area already stinging from a topical application of a muscle-relief cream called Icy-Hot—his penis begins to stiffen.
He closes his eyes, and with a soft moan, he draws his trophy once more across the region, and now he can taste her and see her and feel her and smell her again. His burning erection rises like a proud, stiff sentinel between his balls, which are beginning to resemble prickly fruit as his hairs grow back in from his last pubic shave, because he does not want to leave pubic hair trace at a scene. He also shaves the rest of his body. Not his head. Too proud of his head of hair. He wears a tight cap for that.
He inhales deeply, squeezing his eyes tight as he grows, bigger, hotter, more painful—the sensations setting him afire and pounding like a giant beating heart. The blood whumps against his eardrums with the primal rhythm of the world as he takes himself in hand and jacks off in time to the beat, letting his mind go, back. Back. Back ... he holds his breath. He’s there again, with her. Suddenly his breaths come shorter, faster, and he moves his hand quicker, harder, his world narrowing, spiraling down into the cellar with ... Faith ...
He’s there now ... flinging the rope over the beam, tying it securely. Her body is limp and her flesh still firm and pliant beneath his fingers. He’s dragging her toward the rope ends hanging down from the beam. Candles shake and shiver in a sneaky breeze seeking its way in from the outside. But he likes it. It’s far away and desolate and romantic and underground and ... sacrosanct. It is. Yes. It is. Hooking his hands under her armpits, he bends her at the waist and hefts her up into a sitting position. Her head lolls forward, her chin tucking into her chest, and her long hair falls across her breasts. The nipple ring catches the candlelight, and it excites him, that ring. Quickly, he feeds rope across her chest—above the bare breasts—then around her back, then around her neck. He feeds the rope back up over the beam and pulls. Like a pulley. She shifts into position, heels dragging a little across the cedar planks. Levering her up just a little higher, he ties the rope securely there.
He steps back to check his work, and pleasure swells his chest.
She’s suspended in a way that makes it seem as though she’s sitting on the floor, nice and lifelike, her heels down, toes up, her lean thighs splayed wide open like a doll.
He stares for a while at the snakes on her abdomen, the fanged Medusa mouth that opens wide and is vampire-toothed around her pink pussy. A gust of wind punches down into the cellar. The candles flicker, and for a strange moment the Medusa seems to come alive, the snakes writhing over her groin, the pussy mouth licking its wet lips.Come inside, Johnny boy, I want to eat your erection, John, you peeping Tom...She’s a bad girl, Johnny, she made you look. She made you watch ... fix her good ...
He takes his fine-edged X-ACTO precision blade from its sheath, and he places it carefully near the candles. That’s for after.
CHAPTER 41
Maddocks sat at the bar, sleeves rolled up, tie off, his left elbow resting on the beaten copper counter as he sipped his beer. His attention was riveted on Angie, who was shooting pool with Holgersen and two other detectives from the high-risk offender unit who’d been seconded to Operation Limpet. And yeah, he found himself thinking of his partner as “Angie” instead of Pallorino now. What that meant ... hell, he didn’t want to think about what it meant right now.
The music was loud—a boisterous Irish fiddle duo—and the mood raucous in the Flying Pig pub, just down the road from the MVPD station. The task force was jubilant after the discovery on Thetisby Island. And following a stormy return trip by boat and an intense debriefing where theories were hashed out, evidence debated, and next steps in the investigation identified, they’d all repaired to the “police bar,” except Buziak. And Fitz—Maddocks couldn’t see either of them among the crowd, although they’d said they were coming.
He knocked back the rest of his beer and motioned to Colm McGregor, the pub owner, for another. It was late, going on midnight. He hadn’t eaten all day, and the pub kitchen was overwhelmed by the sudden influx of famished officers. His food was thus taking its sweet time to arrive. Which meant the beer was going to his head and that he had a nice buzz on.
McGregor slid him another cold one, and Maddocks tilted back the bottle. Enjoying the cool, prickling, soft explosion of foam in his mouth, Maddocks’s attention went back to Angie bending over the pool table. His gaze settled on her butt in her slim-fitting black jeans, and the memory of her naked atop him was suddenly stark, hot, and unavoidable. He forced his mind instead back to the major finds today: the different sets of human hair trace—blond, black, brunette—and the used condom that had fallen between the cedar planks. This was a significant breakthrough. They should have the forensics analysis on the trace shortly.
Angie moved to the opposite side of the table. Bending at the hips, she leaned her pelvis against the edge of the table as she strained to reach the ball with her cue, her focus intent on her target, her red hair falling over her shoulder. It was hot in here, and the top of her button-down shirt was open, and suddenly Maddocks could see in his mind her bouncing breasts as she’d ridden atop of him.Shit—he couldn’t erase the memory of their sex no matter how hard he struggled to obliterate it. He tilted back another swig of beer, his thoughts turning now to her odd fainting episode in the cellar. Something was going on with her, and it just deepened his curiosity about the woman. It was also giving him slight cause for concern. A grunt sounded suddenly at his left, jagging into his thoughts. He turned quickly to see Leo, two stools down, nursing a whiskey tumbler and watching him intently, a smirk on his lips. It shot a spark of irritation through Maddocks. “Enjoying yourself there, Leo?”
Leo slid off his stool and moved closer, perching himself atop the seat adjacent to Maddocks. He knocked off the remainder of his drink, plunked his glass on the counter, and called out to McGregor. “Hey, big guy, make the next one a triple, will ya? And bring our horseman here another of whatever he’s having.” Clearing his raspy smoker’s throat, he turned back to Maddocks.
“Watching a nice piece of ass there, eh, Sergeant?” he said, jerking his chin toward Angie.
Maddocks ignored him and addressed McGregor instead as the owner placed the fresh drinks in front of them. “How’s that burger and fries coming?”
“Two minutes, tops,” said the giant of a redheaded Scotsman in his native brogue.
Leo put his fresh whiskey glass to his lips, his gaze still fixed on Angie. “I wouldn’t bother trying to get into her jeans if I were you—I figure she sways the other way.” He chuckled to himself. “Probably has a fanged cunt like that Medusa we saw on Hocking, and she’ll eat your prick alive if you try to stick it in there.”
Every muscle in Maddocks’s body tensed with an explosion of rage. Mentally, slowly, he counted to three, and then he took another long, cold sip of his beer. But still, he couldn’t help what came out of his mouth next. “Did you make a pass at her yourself, Leo? She turned you down and it got your fat, hairy-ass ego hurt—is that where this is coming from?”
Leo’s smirk faded, his eyes narrowed, and his face turned florid.
