Bentley Little - Dominion

He walked into the chief's office, showed him the printout, told him about the match, and said that he needed a warrant and some men.

"I can't spare anyone," Goodridge said. "Why don't you hold off until tomorrow. Margeaux Daneam's not going anywhere."

Horton stared at him, stunned. "What?"

The chief looked at him coolly. "You heard me. It'll wait."

"We found her bloody fingerprint on the bottle that was used to penetrate and rupture Ann Melbury, and I'm not supposed to arrest her?"

Goodridge opened his bottom desk drawer, drew out a Daneam wine bottle.

"Relax, Horton. You take things much too seriously. Have a drink. Loosen up a little."

Horton stared at the chief, cold washing over him. He turned without speaking and walked out of the office. ?|

"Horton!" Goodridge called after him.

He ignored the chief's cry and continued walking. He spotted Deets in front of the supply room, waiting to be issued riot gear, and he grabbed the young cop. "You're coming with me," he said.

"But I'm supposed to--"

"We matched the print from the bottle. We've got our murderer. I want you in on the collar."

Deets was suddenly at attention. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Horton frowned. "How many times have I told you about that 'sir' shit?"

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant. I just got--"

"Get a black-and-white," Horton said. "Bring it around front. I'll meet you there."

"Yes, si-- Okay!" He sprinted down the corridor, against the traffic.

Horton reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, lit it. So they wouldn't have a warrant. No big deal. Phillips would get him one after the fact and back date it. What the chief would do ... That was another story.

He took a long drag on his cigarette, inhaled deeply, then pushed his way past a line of uniforms toward the front door.

They pulled up in front of the winery, parking in one of the visitor spaces. He had expected someone to meet them, since they'd had to announce themselves and somebody within one of the buildings had had to open the gate for them, but the place appeared to be deserted.

He didn't like that.

He was nervous enough already, but Deets seemed not to notice anything amiss. The young officer got out of the car, straightened his belt, then started toward the front door of the main building, stopping only when he realized that Horton was not following.

"Lieutenant?" he called.

Horton lumbered around the back of the vehicle, caught up to Deets. His cop sense was working overtime. He had never before been as flat-out spooked as he was right now, and he wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.

He didn't want to be here after dark.

It was pathetic but it was true. His uneasiness had nothing to do with Margeaux Daneam or even the unnatural gruesomeness of the murders she was going to be charged with. It was something more instinctual, more primal, and he did not want to be here when night fell.

Cop's instinct or drunk's paranoia?

He didn't know. But whatever it was, it wasn't shared by Deets. The rookie was striding purposefully toward the main building: a Greek-looking structure facing the parking lot and the drive. Horton followed his footsteps.

"Here!"

The woman's voice came from somewhere off to their left, and Horton turned to see where it was coming from. He thought he saw movement in the late-afternoon shadows that shaded the area between the main building and the structure immediately adjacent to it, but he was not sure.

"Ms. Daneam?" he called.

There was a chorus of wild female laughter, the high, manic sound of several women cackling at the tops of their lungs, and a cold shiver of fear passed through him. Again, he saw movement in the shadows.

"Ms. Daneam? We're from the--"

The door to the adjacent building opened, and for a second, against the interior light, he saw a group of naked women shoving their way inside.

Then the door closed, and the wild laughter was silenced.

What the hell was going on here? He looked over at Deets. The rookie was standing in place, mouth open, an expression of dumb surprise on his face.

"Come on," Horton said, unholstering his gun, his confidence returning with the feel of the heavy revolver in his hand. "Let's go." He started jogging toward the door, gratified to hear Deets' boot steps behind him.

The two of them reached the door simultaneously, automatically positioning themselves on either side. Horton reached over and knocked loudly. "Ms. Daneam?" he. called.

There was no response from inside, not even laughter, and Horton looked at Deets and said, "On three." He nodded at the rookie. "One. Two.

Three."

Deets turned the doorknob and Horton swung out, pushing open the door.

Nothing.

Before them was an empty lighted hallway. There was no sight of anyone, no sound, and they looked at each other and proceeded forward slowly, guns drawn, trying doors as they passed them, though all appeared to be locked.

"They could be behind any one of these," Deets said.

Horton nodded.

"They were ... they were naked," the rookie said.

Horton nodded again.

"Why were they naked?"

"I don't know."

"I don't like this."

That makes two of us, Horton thought, but he said nothing, tried another door. From somewhere ahead, down die hall, he heard a scream, and he looked at Deets and the two of them started running toward the sound.

The hallway turned, forking to the right, and ahead, on the left, one of the doors was open. Horton stopped, hugging the wall next to the open doorway. "Police!" he yelled. "Step out with your hands on your head!"

There was no response, and he moved in front of the doorway in classic firing position.

There was no one in the room.

He quickly walked inside, and the smell hit him almost immediately. It was overwhelming, a powerfully noxious mixture of old wine and older blood, stale sex and violence. He retched, instinctively doubling over, puking on the floor in the corner next to the door.

"Jesus," Deets said behind him, gagging.

Horton wiped his mouth, straightened up. The room was windowless, furnitureless, and in its center was a gigantic empty wine vat, built into the floor and sunken like a hot tub. He walked forward. As he reached the edge of the vat, he could see that it was not empty after all. Glued to the bottom with dried blood were assorted bones and the carcasses of rotting animals.

"Holy shit," Deets said.

Horton started for the door. "Come on. Let's get out to the car and call for backup. I don't like the setup here."

"There is no backup. They're all at the riot."

"They're not all at the riot."

Deets followed him out the door. "What's going on here?"

"I don't know," Horton admitted. He looked down the hall the way they'd come.

And saw the women.

They were crouched near the turn of the hallway. They were dirty and disheveled, some holding spears, others wine bottles, covered with what looked like mud and blood. He stood, unmoving. He was scared. But he was also aroused, and as frightening as the women looked, as threatening as their appearance was, he found himself looking between their bent legs, trying to see their shadowed crotches. This was not the right reaction, he told himself. This was not the way he was supposed to feel. But there was something sensuous in their stances, something provocative in their complete lack of modesty and the pride they seemed to take in their filth.

He smelled alcohol, wine, and he breathed deeply, inhaling the fragrance. He imagined what it would be like to throw himself into that gaggle of women, to feel them strip him and take advantage of him, kissing him, licking him, stroking him, sitting on his lap, sitting on his face. They were all sisters too, weren't they? That would make it even better.