Steven Harper - Nightmare

"You’re It ," he grinned. "And you owe me five."

The game continued. Kendi did well when he was It , and not so well when he was hiding. The more he played, the more he became certain that Dorna was able to interfere with his talent of finding people. When he confronted her on it between rounds, however, she only smiled and called to restart the game.

After a time, Kendi began to feel the tickle that told him his drugs were about to wear off. The distraction was enough to slow him down, and Willa slapped his shoulder.

"You’re It ," she announced.

"I think I’ve only got time for one more round," Dorna announced, and the others concurred. "Kendi, you owe me ten freemarks. Double or nothing?"

Kendi didn’t even hesitate. "Done!" He called up the Outback one last time and counted as the others fled in all directions. Kendi kept his concentration full on Dorna as the numbers rolled automatically across his tongue. And then he felt it again. She was in two places at once. But how? Never mind-right now he had to concentrate on not losing her. Ferociously he tried to keep his mind on both her images.

"Eighty-three, eighty-four …"

It wasn’t easy. Both Dornas were dodging, staying in continual motion. A bead of sweat trickled down Kendi’s temple. Dorna ran, leaped, darted. The distance between her two images grew, making it even harder. And then there were three of her. Kendi gasped in amazement. It felt like he was being pulled in three different directions, but he was determined to keep his mental eye on her.

"Ninety-seven, ninety-eight …"

He was being pulled apart, yanked in too many directions. But he had to keep track of her. He would keep track of her. The Dornas moved again. There was a strange wrench.

When Kendi opened his eyes, he was flying.

There were thirteen roses. Ara counted them twice.

A few red petals had scattered themselves across the coffee table in Vera Cheel’s bright, airy house. The windows were closed against the rain that battered the windows and Ara smelled the chemicals spread by the technicians in their search for only they knew what. She remembered the roses being on the table the first time she had visited Cheel’s house so she could recreate the murder in the Dream, but she hadn’t thought anything of them.

Thirteen roses. Fourteen minus one?

There was no card. Tan was examining a delivery box she had found in the kitchen wastebasket. It was white with red lettering. "Fran’s Flowers," Tan read. "Let’s see what they have to say."

A quick call, however, revealed that Fran’s Flowers had no record of a delivery to Vera Cheel’s house, nor had she bought flowers from them recently.

"Let’s see what else," Tan said in her harsh voice. "Betting on the bedroom."

It took less than a minute to find the pile of underwear beneath the bed. Tan, her hands protected with close-fitting gloves, fished them out and counted them.

"Thirteen pairs of panties," she said, settling back on her heels.

"You think there were fourteen and the killer took one?" Ara said.

"Under the bed’s an unlikely place to store clean underwear, so I’d say probably." Tan produced a large evidence bag and carefully placed the panties in it for lab analysis. "Have to figure out what it all means. How we can use this to catch the bastard."

Ara sat on the bed feeling uncertain and a bit queasy. Watching Tan shove Vera Cheel’s underwear into a bag felt like a gross invasion of privacy. The woman’s body was already lying naked on an autopsy table at Guardian headquarters, and now two strangers were going through her most private possessions. Would a stranger sort through Ara’s underwear the day after she died?

"It’s a sequence," Tan muttered. She sealed the bag. "A delivery, a murder, a removal of three things. One of the delivered items, a private item of the victim, a finger. The delivery is-what? A gift? A warning? Then things are taken away."

"Including the victim’s life," Ara said.

"Hmmm …yes." Tan crossed her legs on the floor. "Control measure? Serial killers murder their victims as a way to control them. Because they feel they have no control themselves."

A flash of insight struck Ara. "He isn’t a strong person in the real world," she said. "He’s weak there-or he thinks he is-which is why he kills in the Dream. Since the women die in the Dream, he needs to show some control over her solid body as well. He uses intimate objects to gain it."

"Sounds reasonable," Tan said. "So why does he cut off their fingers and sew them onto the next victim?"

Ara shuddered. "I don’t know. It seems related to the addition/subtraction idea, though."

"Each victim gets a present," Tan rasped. "Then the killer takes part of that present and a piece of the corpse. He also takes an item of clothing-"

"Which the victim no longer needs," Ara pointed out.

"— and he keeps it as a souvenir." Tan brought her braid over her shoulder and toyed with it. "Serial killers usually become obsessed with their victims. I wonder if he sends them anything else. Something the woman doesn’t keep?"

"Flowers and chocolates are traditional tokens of love," Ara said.

Tan straightened. "You’re right! I’m stupid! He delivers a love token. When his victim-she doesn’t even realize what’s going on-doesn’t melt into his arms, he feels spurned. Rejected. So he comes back. Kills her."

"And taking back part of the love token is only ‘fair,’ since she scorned him."

Tan nodded. "Need to check the rest of this house. Then the other ones."

They searched the rest of Cheel’s house, but found no more sets of thirteen. By this time, the rain had slacked off to a few breezy droplets and Ara was getting hungry. The two of them retired to the restaurant they had eaten lunch in. When Tan gave her order, her voice had become so harsh, it was barely more than a whisper. After the server left, Tan reached for her water glass.

"Why does that happen?" Ara asked abruptly.

Tan peered at her over the rim of her glass. "Why does what happen?"

"Your voice," Ara explained. "It’s beautiful in the Dream, but in the solid world it’s …different."

"Euphemism for nasty," Tan said blandly.

"No, just-"

"I know what I sound like, Mother," Tan interrupted. "It isn’t pretty."

"If you don’t like talking about it," Ara said, getting embarrassed, "you don’t have to-"

"No secret," Tan said. "My voice in the Dream is what I used to sound like in the solid world. Then that changed."

"An injury?"

Tan nodded. "Took an elbow in the throat breaking up a bar fight. Kid not much older than Kendi. Crushed my vocal cords. Took two operations to give me my voice back. I’m lucky to talk at all, though that depends on your point of view. Kid who elbowed me is a Father at the monastery these days. Teaches math or something."

"I’m sorry," Ara said.

Tan shrugged. "Nothing you did. I adjusted. Let’s talk about the guy who collects fingers." She brought out her computer pad and Ara followed suit. Two screens popped into view over the table.

"We can’t search the houses of the other victims," Tan rasped. "Their houses were all sold a long time ago. But we have holograms, photographs, inventories. Let’s skim the reports. See if the on-sight Guardians mentioned finding anything."

This work went quite a lot faster. They got through the scenes and inventories of Wren Hamil’s house before the food arrived. It was an easier job for Ara to stomach. Photos, holograms, and lists of words were a lot less personal than handling clothes once worn by a woman now lying beaten and bloody on an examination table.

They continued to work as they ate, pouring over the information from Prinna Meg’s house.