Sunday, 13 December 2015
12:22 P.M.
“. . . So if Azaz is Hebrew for ‘strength’ and El means ‘God,’ there’s an argument that, in that particular order, ‘Azazel’ means ‘strength over God’ . . . And here it says that animals deemed ‘dark,’ such as bats, snakes, and feral canines, are ‘particularly susceptible vessels to sustain unclean spirits between hosts.’”
“Could we please talk about something else?” complained Curtis from the driver’s seat as she indicated to turn off the interstate. “You’re really starting to creep me out.”
Rouche had caught one of the channel-hopping Pastor Jerry Pilsner Jr.’s numerous television appearances that morning and had spent the entire journey googling their supernatural suspect.
Baxter had tried her damnedest to sleep through most of it.
They started down a rural road, the branches of the bare trees like knotted fingers grasping out at lonely vehicles.
“OK, but get this . . .” said Rouche excitedly, scrolling down the screen of his phone.
Curtis huffed.
Awake again, Baxter wiped a bit of drool from the corner of her mouth.
“‘Hunted by the archangel Raphael, Azazel the fallen is unburdened of his blackened wings and bound in the darkness of the deepest pit on God’s creation. For buried beneath the sharpest of rocks in the harshest, most remote desert of the earth, Azazel remained—in a grave lined with the shredded feathers of his own decimated mantle, never again to see the light till he burn within the fires of Judgment Day.’”
“Thanks for that,” yawned Baxter.
“I hate you, Rouche,” Curtis told him, shivering off the unpleasant story.
“Last little bit,” Rouche promised, clearing his throat. “‘In that endless darkness, Azazel fell into madness, and unable to break free of his chains, he tore his spirit free of his shackled body to wander the earth forever as a thousand different souls.’”
Rouche put his phone down in his lap:
“I’ve creeped myself out now.”
The first delicate snowflakes were landing gently against the windscreen as they pulled into the Banthams’ icy driveway. The forecasters had predicted heavy snowfall later in the day, warning of possible blizzard conditions overnight and into the morning.
As Curtis followed Rouche’s tire tracks from the previous day up to the garages, Baxter gazed out at the house, which looked just as uninhabited as it had the previous afternoon, except that a set of deep footprints had been trodden into the otherwise untouched lawn.
“Someone’s been here,” she said hopefully from the backseat.
Curtis parked up, and they stepped out into the cold. Rouche noticed a neighbor watching them curiously from the property opposite and hoped that she would leave them in peace. She started to approach, almost slipping over twice as she negotiated the driveway.
“You two go ahead,” he told them.
Curtis and Baxter approached the front door while he went to intercept the nosy woman before she could delay them further by breaking a hip.
“Can I help you?” he whispered to himself, anticipating the typical greeting of an interfering neighbor.
“Can I help you?”
“Just looking for Dr. James Bantham,” he said, dismissing her with a smile.
Curtis rang the doorbell while the woman looked on suspiciously. She showed no sign of leaving.
“Cold out,” said Rouche, subtly suggesting to the woman that she might be more comfortable retreating to the warmth of her own goddamn business.
Baxter knocked loudly when there was no answer.
“They’ve got good security,” said the neighbor, making no attempt to disguise the implication.
“No kidding,” replied Rouche, taking out his identification. “They’ve got three police officers on their doorstep.”
The woman thawed instantly, despite her blue hands looking as though they might drop off at any second.
“Have you tried their cell phones?” she suggested as she retrieved her own.
“Yes.”
“Have you got Terri’s number, though?” she asked, holding the phone up to her ear. “Lovely woman. And the kids. We all look out for each other arou—”
“Shut up!” Baxter yelled from beside the front door. The woman looked outraged. After a moment, Baxter turned to Curtis: “Can you hear that?”
She crouched down and opened the letterbox, but the sound had stopped.
“Call it again!” she shouted back at the nosy neighbor.
A few seconds later, the quiet hum of a phone vibrating against a hard surface returned.
“Phone’s in the house,” she called back to Rouche.
“Oh,” said the neighbor. “Well, that’s weird. She always has her phone with her in case the boys need her. She must be home. Perhaps she’s in the bath.”
Rouche registered the genuine concern on the woman’s face:
“Baxter! Listen again,” he shouted.
He took out his own phone and redialed the number he had attempted to contact the doctor on the previous day, his heart fluttering a little in the pause as he waited for the call to connect.
Baxter pressed her ear into the narrow gap in the door as she strained to listen.
“Oh, the weather outside is frightful . . .”
Startled, she fell back onto the wet floor as the Christmas tune blared from directly behind the door.
“But the fire is so delightful . . .”
Rouche turned to the bewildered woman: “You, go!”
He was already reaching for his weapon as he sprinted toward the house.
Baxter watched from the damp ground as Curtis kicked at the lock.
“And since we’ve no place to go . . .”
Curtis kicked again. This time, the door swung open, sending the phone and its festive ringtone skidding beneath an impressive Christmas tree.
“FBI! Anyone home?” she shouted over the last line of the chorus.
Rouche and Baxter followed her inside. As he rushed upstairs, Baxter headed through the hallway and into the kitchen.
“Dr. Bantham?” she could hear him calling somewhere above.
The house was warm. In the center of the impressive country kitchen, four half-eaten lunches sat cold and forgotten. A thick skin covered the surface of the bright orange soup.
“Anyone home?” shouted Curtis from another room as Rouche continued to trample about upstairs.
Baxter looked down at what was left of the golden-crusted rolls beside three of the four bowls and then down at the floor, where occasional flakes and crumbs marked a path back the way she had come. She followed the sporadic trail halfway down the hallway to what looked like a narrow cupboard door.
“Hello?” she called before cautiously pulling it open to discover a set of steep wooden stairs descending into the dark. “Hello?”
She took one step down to search the wall for a light switch. The wood creaked beneath her modest weight.
“Curtis!” she called.
She took out her mobile phone and switched on the built-in flashlight. The staircase was thrown into stark white light. She took two more tentative steps. Every inch she descended, she claimed a little more of the basement back from the darkness. As she placed her foot to step again, she trod on something unstable and felt her ankle twist beneath her.
She fell, landing in a heap against a cold stone wall.
“Baxter?” she heard Curtis call.
“Down here!” she groaned.
She lay still on the musty floor, breathing dust and damp, as she mentally assessed the damage one limb at a time. She was bruised, had removed the scabs on her forehead, and could feel her ankle throbbing in her boot, but appeared to have got away with only minor injuries. Her phone sat two steps above the floor, casting a spotlight on the bread roll that had tripped her.
“Shit,” she winced as she sat herself up.
Curtis appeared in the doorway: “Baxter?”
“Hi.” She waved up.
There were heavy footfalls overhead as Rouche rushed to join them.
“Are you all right?” Curtis asked. “You should’ve turned the light on.”
Baxter was about to retort with something cutting when Curtis reached up and pulled a cord by the door, which made a satisfying click.
“I might’ve found something useful,” started Curtis, but Baxter wasn’t listening.
She was watching the darkness with wide eyes, not even daring to breathe. The lone dusty bulb that hung from the ceiling slowly started to glow, casting an orange haze.
“Baxter?”
Baxter’s pulse doubled in pace as the shape closest to the light took human form and then another beside it. Both were lying face-down on the ground, bloody burlap bags covering their faces. She was already getting up to leave as the bulb reached full intensity, the fight-or-flight instinct taking hold. As she climbed onto her knees, she saw two more bodies beyond the others, identical in positioning, the same bloodstained bags over their heads, but only half the size of the two adults.
“What is it?” asked Curtis urgently.
Baxter scrambled up the staircase, debilitated as much by panic as by her twisted ankle. She fell out into the hallway and kicked the door shut behind her as she tried to calm her breathing. She kept one boot pressed firmly against the base of the wood, as if afraid that something might climb out after her.
Curtis was poised with her phone at the ready, anticipating the need for backup. Rouche kneeled beside Baxter and waited patiently for her to explain. She turned to face him, panting warm breath across his face:
“I think . . . I found . . . the Banthams.”
Rouche was sitting on the porch outside, watching the snow fall over the assortment of vehicles that now filled the long driveway. Catching one of the insubstantial flakes, he rubbed it into nonexistence between his fingers.
A memory returned to him: his daughter playing in the garden when she was younger, four or five, wrapped up against the cold as she tried to catch snowflakes on her tongue. She had stared up in fascination at the white clouds literally disintegrating above her. Without the slightest hint of fear in her voice, she had asked him whether the sky was falling.
It had stayed with him for some reason, that surreal idea of witnessing the world die, of being helpless to do anything more than watch it happen and catch snowflakes. He realized, as the clouds continued to bleed, that the memory meant something else entirely to him now, having witnessed these incomprehensible acts of violence and cruelty play out beneath a snowglobe sky.
More was coming, of that he was sure, and there was nothing any of them could do but watch.
Surrounded by their peers, and lit with bulbs from this millennium, the basement had taken on the appearance of any other crime scene, albeit one populated with professionals in tears and frequent requests to “step out for a moment.” The forensic field team claimed the lower level to preserve the scene, while their colleagues worked in the kitchen, where the family had been gathered before their deaths. Two photographers were going from room to room documenting everything, and the Canine Unit had already been through the property.
Baxter and Curtis were upstairs. They had not said a word to each other in almost an hour as they searched for anything that might assist their investigation.
There were no obvious signs of a struggle. Curiously, the murdered doctor had been branded with “Puppet” rather than “Bait,” while no markings featured on any of the other bodies. The family had been restrained and then executed in turn with a single bullet to the back of the head. The estimated time frame: eighteen to twenty-four hours since death.
There was always a heightened atmosphere at crime scenes involving children. Baxter felt it as much as anyone despite not having any of her own, not ever planning to, and avoiding them wherever possible. People worked in a state of anger-fueled professionalism, prepared to go without sleep, without food, without seeing their own families in dedication to the task at hand, which was probably why Baxter snapped when she spotted Rouche sat outside, doing nothing.
She stormed downstairs, ignoring the throbbing in her ankle, marched out through the open front door, and shoved him backward off his seat.
“Ow!” he moaned, rolling onto his front.
“What the hell, Rouche?!” she yelled. “Everyone else is in there trying to help while you’re sat out here on your arse!”
The ESU Canine Unit walking the perimeter stopped in the distance, the officer shouting at the German shepherd when it started barking aggressively in their direction.
“I don’t do dead kids,” Rouche said simply as he got up, watching the dog lose interest and continue walking.
“Who does? Do you think any of us want to be in there? But it’s our job!”
Rouche didn’t say anything. He started brushing off the snow.
“You know I worked the Cremation Killer case, right?” continued Baxter. “Me and Wolf . . .” She hesitated. She actively avoided bringing up her infamous ex-partner’s name. “Me and Wolf had to deal with twenty-seven dead girls in as many days.”
“Look, I had a bad experience . . . on a job, and since then I just don’t do dead kids . . . ever,” Rouche explained. “It’s kind of a thing. I’m taking care of stuff out here. OK?”
“No, not bloody OK, actually,” said Baxter.
She grabbed a handful of snow and ice off the ground on her way back inside. Rouche winced as he shook out his top. Moments later, a solid snowball connected viciously with the side of his head.
It was dark by the time they closed up the crime scene for the night. The predicted heavy snowfall had arrived as promised, sparkling against the black sky in the floodlit front garden. Baxter and Curtis walked outside to find Rouche huddled up in the same spot as before.
“I’ll give you two a moment,” said Curtis, excusing herself.
Baxter pulled her woolly hat over her head and sat down beside him to look out over the tranquil garden. From the corner of her eye, she could see the nasty cut on his forehead.
“Sorry about the head,” she said into a cloud of mist formed by her warm breath. She watched the neighbors’ Christmas lights flashing alongside those of the police vehicles.
“No need to apologize.” Rouche smiled. “You didn’t know it was going to hurt.”
Baxter looked guilty: “I put a rock in it.”
Rouche cracked a smile and then they both laughed.
“What did I miss out here?” she asked.
“Well, it’s snowing.”
“Thanks. I got that.”
“I don’t get it. They’re killing their own now? How does that fit the pattern?” Rouche sighed. “I’ve told the teams that the priority is to identify and locate the other counselors, and I’ve requested Bantham’s complete client list from the Gramercy Practice. I’ve also ordered full blood workups for all of the Puppets.”
Rouche realized that they still had not told Baxter about the illicit drugs found in Glenn Arnolds’s system. He planned to confront Curtis about it later that evening.
“Just in case,” he added when Baxter looked intrigued. “But the main thing I’ve been up to is gathering evidence.” He pointed to where a miniature tent had been erected in the pristine white garden. “Our killer’s footprints.”
“We can’t know that for certain.”
“Actually, we can.”
Rouche took out his phone and flicked through to a photograph he had taken earlier that afternoon. He handed it to Baxter: a light speckling of snow decorated the sky, the idyllic house, which was now destined to haunt her, sitting dark and still below. Their FBI vehicle was parked in front of the garages, neat tire tracks carved into the ice behind it. Now scrubbed clean by the snow, a deep set of footprints had taken the shortest route possible by cutting across the garden.
“It could have been a neighbor or a paperboy,” said Baxter.
“It wasn’t. Look again.”
She focused on the screen and zoomed in on the picture.
“There are no footprints leading to the house!”
“Exactly,” said Rouche, “and it didn’t snow here last night. I checked. I went round before the cavalry turned up. I eliminated yours, mine, Curtis’s, and the nosy neighbor’s; this was the only other set.”
“Which means . . . the killer must have been here yesterday! They were in there while we were stood on the doorstep!” gasped Baxter. “Shit! We could’ve had them!”
She handed the phone back to him.
They sat in silence for a moment.
“Think whoever killed these people is the one holding the strings? Your Azazel?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Christ, Rouche. What the hell’s going on?”
He smiled sadly, extended his hand beyond the shelter of the porch and into the building blizzard.
“. . . The sky is falling.”