Jo Robertson - The Avenger

First, a double-dose of the red pills to increase the primordial state. Then, hopefully, the blue pills to promote the necessary visions to track the killer back to his den. A man capable of what Randolph had done wouldn't be trapped by ordinary police procedure and written records. The secret to his dark fantasies lay in a distorted mind and twisted psyche. And that's where Jack intended to go.

Into the monster's mind.

Now that Olivia was safe, he had one less distraction. He wouldn't have to worry about her witnessing the full effect of the Change. The last thing he needed was her watching his transformation when he hunted the killer. Although he'd tried to explain it to her, even he had trouble voicing the degradation and bestiality of it all.

In Slater's guest house he dragged his briefcase into the kitchen where he took the dosage of red pills along with a glass of orange juice. Fifteen minutes passed. Nothing at first. Then the tiny thrill of an endorphin release in his brain, an ever-so-slight altering of mind and mood. He returned to the kitchen and swallowed several more of the reds and, after a moment's hesitation, a handful of the large blue capsules. After memorizing the layout of the living room, he turned off the lights, opened the drapes, and sat on the sofa. He gazed sightlessly through the window pane out into the dim gloaming of the night.

Then he waited. And waited some more.

Minutes passed. Or hours. He had no sense of time or place as his brain accommodated the altered sensory perceptions. The heavy odor of freshly mown lawn wafted to him through the open window. He breathed deeply and steadily.

The man who occupied his body metamorphosed into another creature as he gave himself over to the vision. Vines wrapped around his legs and their tendrils crept steadfastly upward to his thighs and waist. Something was wrong.

He jerked at the entangling greenery, but it tightened like sodden leather dried in the sun. Tugging at its vise-like clutch, he finally broke away and ran. Ran faster than the wind, his legs and arms throbbing with the exertion. Bare feet pounding on hard, packed earth, lungs gasping for every breath, he galloped on.

This was wrong, he thought. He was supposed to be the hunter, not the hunted. He remembered his earlier dream. Was that when it had changed? He stopped abruptly in confusion. All wrong. He'd never felt so… mortal in a vision.

What the hell was wrong?

The clanging of his cell phone jarred him awake. He fumbled with the contraption, flipped it open, and barked into the receiver. "What?"

"Jack?" Slater asked.

Jack swiped his hand across his brow and pulled his fingers away dripping wet. He was drenched with sweat. His heart raced in his chest, and a blinding, debilitating pain pierced his right eye socket. He coughed and cleared his throat. "Yeah, what's up?"

"I have information on Randolph."

Jack heard the shuffle of papers over the line. He rose, stretched his body, and struggled to shake off the aftereffects of the dream. "What?"

"Each of the first four murders coincided with a time when Randolph was out of town on school business or holiday."

"Did you get an address on him?"

"A little place called Sequoia Falls, south of Sacramento off Highway 99. Torres says matching the dates to Randolph's absences is enough to obtain a search warrant. Deputy Harris and your two agents are getting Judge Davis' signature on a night-time warrant right now."

Slater paused. "Will that work for you?"

Hell, Jack didn't care if Slater called out the entire National Guard. Randolph wouldn't be found at his residence. He'd be hiding in some den he'd specifically chosen for this occasion.

"Sure, check it out and get back to me," Jack said, fidgeting with the phone, wanting to get back to the only productive action. "They might not find evidence at the house, not enough for an arrest warrant."

"If Randolph's the DLK," Slater mused, "he'll destroy anything incriminating."

"Yeah, but try anyway."

After Slater disconnected, Jack slumped on the sofa, his hands dangling between his legs. Randolph's dungeon wouldn't be in Sequoia Falls. It'd be somewhere no reasonable person would think of searching.

That's why Jack had to track him through a lysergic vision.

This time he prepared by drinking a huge glass of water to hydrate himself. Then he removed his clothing except for his underwear. He pulled the living room drapes shut so that the room was plunged into absolute darkness. He stretched out on the sofa, his head on the arm rest, his fingers interlaced at the back of his neck.

The second vision plunged him into immediate chaos.

Bells chimed in the distance, and Olivia shifted beneath the covers. Damn ringing, go away. Miraculously, it did, and she slipped comfortably into the very realistic dream she'd been enjoying. A dream about Jack's beautiful face hovering…

This time a buzzing, long and persistent, jarred through the dream. Dragging herself out of a lazy stupor, she sat up, rubbed her eyes, and listened.

Nothing.

She'd just decided to lie down, when the clamor started again. Banging this time. Loud, dull pounding as if someone were beating, first with the flat of his hand against a solid object, and then with his fist. Relentlessly, over and over like the monotonous thundering of an entire percussion section in her sleep-addled brain. Damn sleeping pills!

She felt so lethargic, so tired.

Fumbling, she reached for the bedside lamp, switched it on, and swung her legs gingerly over the edge of the bed. Her feet seemed to respond to her commands and she padded to the front of Isabella's apartment. Just as she reached the door, the noise stopped. She waited and listened, her ear close to the chain guard.

Faint breathing on the other side?

Without warning her rubbery limbs threatened to give out under her and she leaned her head against the smooth coolness of the door. "Who's there?" she croaked, her voice sounding gravelly in the quiet apartment.

"Dr. Gant? It's Howard Randolph here." A pause. "Olivia? Are you all right?"

During a second pause, she tried to gather her wits through the foggy veil of the sleeping pills. Tried to concentrate on an ephemeral idea that danced at the back of her mind, a basic instinct of self-preservation. Something about Howard? And the vague mystery of how he knew she was here at ADA Torres' apartment. But her muddled brain wouldn't focus.

"Olivia," Howard spoke through the door, his voice a low siren's sound.

She strained to hear him.

"Bishop Cantrell sent me to check on you. He's very worried. He wanted to make sure you're fully recovered from that awful ordeal."

The magic words, Bishop Cantrell, the university's chancellor, the Church's representative at Fatima University.

In reality, her boss.

Every precaution fell away and catholic obedience born of long conditioning took over even though she hadn't attended a mass in years. Shakily, she unbolted the double locks, leaving the chain in place. She cracked the door, just so Howard could see she was okay.

An agreeable smile covered the earnest face that peered through the space between the door jamb and the chain's inside hook.

"Olivia, my dear, we've all been so worried about you."

An omen, a warning. A picture of a sheep in wolf's clothing.

She smiled faintly. "As you can see, Howard, I'm fine."

Doubt crossed his handsome face. "But such an experience. To be kidnapped by your ex-husband… " His voice trailed off. "You need someone looking after you."

How the hell did Howard know that? Was the gossip mill so fast? She couldn't think clearly with the sleeping pills in her.