Edward Lee - Incubi

“Dead End,” a sign read.

“Uh-huh,” he muttered.

He pulled past the sign, turned off the motor and the lights, and got out. By the trunk light he checked his Smith snub. The shotgun was loaded, five rounds of no. 4 buck. He slung it over his shoulder. Then he loaded six.455s into the big Webley.

He gently closed the trunk.

He tried to visualize himself. A suspended cop standing in the dark in some guy’s driveway in the middle of the night with a riot gun slung across his back.

What am I doing?

It was not too late to be reasonable. He could get back into the car, drive home, and proceed with this in a proper and professional manner.

Sure I could , he realized. But I’m not gonna, so let’s go.

Jack began to walk up the dark road.

He didn’t know if he was looking at a house or some architect’s idea of a bad joke . Frank Lloyd Wright would shit in his grave if he could see this , he thought. Khoronos’ house looked like a futuristic castle: bright white, shutterless with gunslit windows, and configured of odd angles and lines. It stood out against the moon. The structure bothered him somehow, the trapezoidal tangents, the incongruence of its shape. Perhaps it was his imagination, but the more Jack stared at the structure’s bizarre geometry, the more he saw the shades of the same occult glyphs left on the walls of three murdered women.

He skirted around the side. Most of the windows were dark. Before the house stood a squat four-car garage. The doors were locked but there were windows in the panels. He quickly whipped out his mini-Maglite and shined it in.

More coincidence, or was this it?

First, there was no doubt that this was the right place. In the furthest bay he saw an orange Mercedes 450SL — Ginny’s car. Next were two more vehicles: a white panel van and a long black luxury sedan, a Lincoln or a Cadillac.

Stewie had said the two guys had picked up Veronica’s painting in a white van. Craig had seen a big black sedan pulling into the Undercroft the night Susan Lynn was murdered.

Again, he faltered. Neither Stewie nor Craig had gotten tag numbers or even partials, but he doubted that mattered. The decryption of Khoronos’ name, plus the white van and the black sedan spotted by witnesses, was probably enough to get a search warrant that would wash in court.

But that would take a day, he thought. And I don’t have a day .

A high fence surrounded the backyard, beyond which stood the forest. The fence was painted glossy black. He couldn’t see between the gaps. He saw no motion or pressure sensors on the fence.

As stealthily as he could, then, he climbed over.

Now he was standing in wavering, lazy light. A large outdoor pool filled the backyard; its submerged lights were on, which vacillated upon the rear of the house. Jack froze, tried to blend in with the fence as his eyes scanned the pool and the yard. He was alone.

No time like the present for illegal entry. He was getting to be an expert at it these days. It was nice to know that even if he did get kicked off the force, he’d be able to burgle houses for a living. He checked every window along the lower level. More darkness. Next were a pair of French doors, any burglar’s dream. He checked the lock on the knob, one of the better Qwik-Sets, but before he slipped out his pickcase, he turned the knob . Some security , he thought. The door was unlocked.

Then he did the next logical thing: he entered the house.

A line from the state annotated code seemed to haunt him: Absent additional exigent circumstances, the officer must obtain a warrant before entering any private residence without positive consent of the tenant or owner.

Jack stalled.

However, the officer may make a warrantless search of anything, whether personal belongings, a vehicle, or a building, provided there is probable cause to believe it necessary to save a life.

Fuck it , he thought.

He closed the door behind him, wiped down the knobs, and walked in. He withdrew the Smith.38 and proceeded.

The downstairs search was effective and quick. He made no noise and left no prints. Only a few lights were on. The entire lower level seemed a clash in design: colonial living room, Victorian study, Tudor-style foyer. It was funny. He noticed no phones, no televisions or radios, or the like. He checked the kitchen last, large and contemporary. He stopped stock-still.

On the floor lay a smashed portable cellular phone.

And something else. A puddle. Streaks.

Blood.

Still wet , he saw.

Now was when he should leave; things had added up to his legal favor. Khoronos’ name, the black sedan, and now wet blood. He should exit the house immediately, retreat to the car, and radio for help. As for probable cause, he could lie to the judge and prosecutor, tell them that he saw the blood from the outside, through the kitchen window, then he wouldn’t have to beat the shaky physical entry. He’d merely tell them he’d never entered the house. But if he was going to do that, he’d have to get out right now, before he might be seen. And…

He looked down at the blood.

It might be Veronica’s blood.

He put the Smith snub in his pocket and unslung the shotgun.

It’s time to stop fucking around.

He searched every room upstairs quickly and quietly. One room was the freakiest thing he’d ever seen, a room made completely of mirrors. Jack didn’t waste time wondering. The other five rooms were bedrooms. Veronica’s was obvious: paints, brushes, a smudged palette. A single painting sat propped up to dry. “Veronica Betrothed,” she’d penned on the back frame, and her name in the corner, “V. Polk.” She’d painted herself in the strangest clarity, crisply naked yet stunningly abstract, holding hands with a figure of flames.

Jack could almost feel the heat just looking at it.

The other bedrooms were spartan and clean. In the last he found a typewriter and a story. “The Passionist” by Virginia Thiel, but no Ginny to go along with it. Where the hell is everybody ? His temper raged. The whole joint’s empty.

Then he heard a quick, muffled—

Thump!

Jack whirled, bringing the shotgun down and nearly releasing his bladder. What he faced was a closed door. And again:

Thump!

Jack pointed the Remington straight at the door. His heart hammered. He popped off the trigger safety with his right index finger, and—

Thumpthumpthumpthumpthump!

— and nearly squeezed off a round at the start from the next pummel of beats. It must be a closet. Jack turned the knob, pulled and stepped back. He stood sideways, to offer as little target mass of himself as possible, and the door keened open.

Jack lowered the Remington. A woman, bound and gagged, lay on the closet floor. Bare legs squirmed, eyes bulged up from out of the dark. Jack stared. The woman was Ginny Thiel.

He dropped on his knee. “Don’t make a sound,” he whispered. “I’m going to untie you.” Ginny went lax as Jack struggled with her bonds. She wore a ripped sundress; blood streaked her legs. It was plain to see that she’d been raped.

They’d tied her up tight as a meat bundle. He finally got the gag off, which she’d nearly chewed through.

“Jack—”

Jack pressed his palm across her mouth. “Quiet. Talk quiet.”

She gulped, nodded.

“You’re going to be all right now. Don’t worry. But I need to know what’s going on.”

“I…,” she murmured. “Khoronos, Gilles…aw, God…”

“What about Khoronos? Where is he?”

Tears flooded her eyes; she trembled at some recollection. When he got the rope off her, she lurched forward and hugged him.