Alexandra Sokoloff - Book of Shadows

October 15

For Garrett, the next week was a blur. Jason Moncrief was arraigned, and entered a plea of “not guilty” with the judge.

Of course he did, nearly everyone does. It means nothing.

The judge set a trial date, which as Carolyn and the detectives had expected, was three months away, giving them plenty of time to keep gathering real evidence.

The DNA reports came back in, and as everyone in the department, the D.A.’s office, and anyone in the U.S. or maybe the world who watched the evening news or signed on to the Internet had expected, the tests proved that the semen found in Erin Carmody’s body was Jason Moncrief’s, and the blood found on Jason’s jeans and sheets was Erin Carmody’s. For the last week Landauer had been positively glowing, and Garrett knew why—it was as strong a circumstantial case as they had ever been a part of.

Garrett himself had been doing a bang-up job of forgetting that night with Tanith Cabarrus, her ritual performance and ominous predictions… and the feel of her body in his arms. After all, this was reality, and there was plenty of real police work to be done.

But with every day that passed, the specter of Halloween loomed larger in his mind.

“Three more shall he take, ere his craving he will slake…”

And Amber’s burned-cigarette eyes stared out of the photo that Garrett had filed away…

And the sweet, haunting lyrics of Jason’s song to Erin would not stop playing through his head.

So this afternoon Garrett stood outside the Suffolk County jail in a mercilessly cold wind. The sun was sinking and the jail was right off the Charles River. Garrett turned away from the glistening silver water and headed toward the facility.

Suffolk County, where Jason Moncrief had been sent for pretrial detention, was a seven-story brick building with a facade of columns and a triangular piece on the roof that made it look vaguely like a temple. In reality it was a maximum security facility housing nine hundred pretrial detainees in thirteen separate housing units with 453 cells, and 654 beds, making it as massively overcrowded as almost every correctional facility in the U.S. As he passed through security, Garrett tried not to dwell on what Jason’s life had been like inside.

On an upper deck of the building, Garrett looked out over the exercise yard. Inmates in their radioactive orange jumpsuits milled in their mostly racially segregated groups, some playing basketball at dilapidated backboards, some pumping iron at the rows of benches and weight machine. The technical restraining order was still in place and Garrett couldn’t get in to talk to Jason in person. But he could look at him. And Jason wasn’t hard to spot, with his dark hair and eyes and pale skin, so like—

Garrett forced himself away from the thought of Tanith.

Jason was completely alone on the bench of the riser on which he sat. More than alone: there was no one at all in his vicinity; he seemed segregated, himself. Garrett had been watching for fifteen minutes and no one had come near him. Usually a kid that young, with the looks he had, would have all manner of unwelcome attention—or alternately, the scrupulous attention of one large older inmate who had taken him “under his wing.”

Jason looked alone in the yard.

Garrett turned to the bulky hack—corrections officer—who had escorted him up to the observation deck. “This kid Moncrief. How’s he been?”

The C.O. looked down on the yard and flicked a hand in Jason’s direction. “Just like you see. Complete loner. He’s in solitary except for weekly exercise. But it’s always the same. No one goes near him.”

Garrett raised his hands, but didn’t have to ask the question. The C.O. shrugged. “Spooky kid. There’s something about him. Maybe Satan’s protecting him, like he says.” He laughed shortly, but there was no conviction in the sound. “He draws these fucking freaky designs all over himself and sits in his cell and—chants—all day long. Weirds out everyone on his block. And sometimes…” The C.O. trailed off.

“What?” Garrett asked sharply.

“Sometimes it sounds like there’s other people in there with him.”

Garrett felt a jolt. Back to the voices. “An early sign of demon infestation.” “Crazy,” he murmured, without realizing he’d said it.

“Yeah,” the C.O. answered. “That’s what they keep saying.”

Garrett nodded thanks to the C.O. and started down the metal stairs toward the ground floor. In his mind he was turning over the jail screw’s remark about “freaky designs” on Jason’s body. Well, that’s something, isn’t it? If the kid had been stupid enough to cover himself with

the sigils of the demon Choronzon

the same designs he had carved into Erin Carmody’s body—then fuck the pretty song. He’d just hammered another nail into his own coffin.

Garrett was making a note to get a physical search warrant to check out Jason’s homemade tattoos when he reached the ground floor. He hesitated, looked through the chain-link fence at the yard.

Jason had not moved.

But as Garrett studied him, he suddenly looked up, straight into Garrett’s face. Garrett froze as they locked eyes across the yard.

And then Jason stood from his seat on the riser and walked deliberately toward the fence, toward Garrett: a sinuous, almost reptilian walk.

Garrett stood still behind the fence, in a kind of disbelief, watching his approach.

Jason stopped in front of the fence, staring through the links. “Detective,” he said, in that sly, feral voice Garrett remembered. “How good of you to come. Are we going to talk, now? Are you here to have the Mysteries explained? Do you crave an audience with the Master?”

Garrett lunged toward the fence, but stopped himself just in time. He was shaking with rage.

“You murderous little shit. I know you killed her. Her parents put her in the ground without her head, you sick fuck. I hope you burn for this.”

Jason shuddered through his whole body, and suddenly someone else looked out through his eyes, someone lost, and haunted, and terrified. “Erin,” he whispered. His face trembled. “I didn’t touch her. I didn’t do it. I swear it.”

Two C.O.s were suddenly behind him, pulling him away from the fence as a bell jangled dissonantly through the yard. “I swear it,” Jason said miserably, his eyes desperate on Garrett’s face. “I swear it.”

In the anemic wash of the streetlamps, the deserted park was ghostly and colorless, a stage set of dead trees and shrubs with the dry fountain and angel in the center. The park had that in common with the landfill; there was a brutality about the ruination, a killer deliberately seeking ugliness.

Garrett parked his Explorer around a corner and a block away so his approach would not be as obvious. In the dark car he reached into the backseat for an old White Sox sweatshirt. He crumpled the garment up in his hands, spilled the dregs of his coffee on it for good measure, then stripped off the business shirt he was wearing, strapped on the shoulder holster for his Glock, and pulled on the wrinkled and newly stained sweatshirt over that, to create an impromptu derelict look. Then he opened the glove compartment and removed a Taser and an extra set of cuffs.

You have a partner, he told himself harshly. What are you doing out here without your partner?

Jason’s voice whispered back to him.

“I didn’t touch her. I swear it.”

He left the car and walked toward the park.

On this cold and windy night the streets were deserted except for an occasional disreputable car cruising by. There was a chill in the clear air and the waning moon was a stark misshapen disc in the sky. Garrett walked through the brick gateposts of the park and onto the concrete paths, past the twisted tree with its leaves like blood. He moved slowly so that he could get a good sense of his surroundings, and he weaved a little, stumbling on the path as if he were drunk. The wind whispered in the weeds and bushes beside him.