I made space for Callie Sutherland’s name on the whiteboard. Under it, I listed the location where the deer hunters had found her body—O’Leary was detailed enough to include that, too—and the possible connection to the Elsie Hanover case. I then drew intersecting lines, which visually connected the two victims.
When I returned to my desk, I saw O’Leary had followed up. This time his email included a subject line that read: Well, that was anticlimactic. Not surprisingly, that was the sum of his correspondence. I got the sense O’Leary was profoundly efficient, probably because he was every bit as concise. In my experience, the two traits effectively worked hand-in-hand.
Through that one single line, I felt the weight of his disappointment and, following several debate-filled minutes, I picked up the phone. “I was going to hold off until I knew more,” I said after a brief reintroduction, “but it’s possible the same men who killed Callie were involved in an abduction in Drexel, Missouri. So, thank you again, Detective. Your information may prove invaluable.”
“No kidding?” he said, and I pictured him on the edge of his seat. “What makes you think they’re connected?”
I told him about my conversations with Mamie, more specifically the description of the man with the scar and tattoo.
“I won’t lie to you, Detective; the possibility of a satanic cult’s involvement raises the hair on the back of my neck. We’ve had our share of cattle mutilations, but this would make it appear they’ve escalated their rituals.”
I heard him swallow past a lump, and I drummed a pen against the desk. “And you never made any arrests in the cattle mutilations?”
“We rounded up a few suspects, but ironclad alibis ruled them out.”
I wished him luck and promised to keep him updated.
I left the station shortly before my shift ended and swung by Hope Memorial. Losing an argument with the charge nurse over HIPPA’s rules and regulations, I had turned to leave when the doctor who had admitted Quaid overheard the conversation and took me aside.
“We’re going to keep him a couple of days, just long enough to complete a more in-depth evaluation. If that goes well, and I believe it will, I’m going to recommend some time off, regular therapy sessions, and a short-term trial of antidepressants.”
Good luck with that. “I know it’s early, but can I see him?”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. We find it’s best for our patients to undergo a kind of disconnect from anything or anyone who might trigger a relapse until we’ve equipped them with the skillset necessary to cope with those triggers.”
“Will you tell him I was here?”
“Of course, Detective . . .?”
“Crenshaw. I don’t suppose I can get an update later on today?”
He dipped his head and pinched his eyes closed, which suggested my request was much more than an inconvenience. “Call the hospital later this evening. Here’s my personal extension,” he said and handed me a card.
When I arrived home, I found Fane waiting on the sofa. His crossed legs pumped the air and his chest heaved up then down between drawn-out theatrical sighs, his traditional way of communicating impatience.
Feeling a lot like Pavlov’s dog, Fane’s demeanor the unconditional stimulus, I automatically glanced at my watch. “What is your problem? I’m home early.”
He vanished without a word, leaving behind a whiff of Chanel Number 5 and a feather barrette.
Hours later, a half-hour before the sun disappeared entirely below the horizon, Raina and I greeted a breezy evening and set out toward a park, a few blocks down the street, our plan to test-drive a kite Fane had “procured” for her. After unfurling the Mylar material that, of course, resembled a bat, and successfully spreading it out—despite Raina’s insistence she help—I instructed her on proper technique. Her tiny hand grasping the control line, I watched her run at full speed across the park, her bright eyes brighter still as the kite lifted higher and seesawed through the air.
The park was crowded with many children and their parents enjoying the final remnants of a perfect day. Kites filled the air, blanketing the sky with all shapes, sizes, and colors. Toddlers played in sandboxes, squealing as fingers and toes explored the fine, granular texture. Exhausted parents surrendered to their preschoolers’ pleas, many of them panting while they pushed swings toward puffy clouds.
The breeze picked up, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Raina lose her grip, and the kite sailed away over the treetops. Anticipating her next move, I shouted her name, but her feet had already left the ground. Her tiny body grew smaller and smaller until she appeared nothing but a miniscule dot in the sky. A crowd thronged, unified in a horrified whispered cluster, fingers following the nearly indiscernible speck that was Raina. A grandmotherly type tugged her cell phone from a gingham dress pocket; I assumed she intended to call for help and I panicked. Suddenly, conversations ended mid-sentence, park-goers stood stock-still, while traffic came to an abrupt halt, a deathly silence permeating a square mile of cityscape. Soon after, Bianca appeared from within a rose-colored shroud.
“Darling, children are impetuous, particularly that one. Might I suggest you relegate such adventures under the cloak of dark?” she said, shrinking farther into her velvet cape.
“Mom, save the lecture, okay?” I said, my gaze following hers as we watched Raina soar higher. Rocketing skyward past treetops, unmanned kites, and a flock of confused nightingales, I went after Raina. Battling a strong headwind and unable to direct her course, she tumbled head over heels, grasping the air as if it were something tangible that could slow her momentum. I swooped up behind her and cradled her in my arms. Desperate to return to the crowd so Bianca could reverse the incantation, I made our descent faster than I would have liked, and the harsh landing sent shockwaves throughout our bodies.
Bianca delivered a blank stare and folded her arms across her cape, the hem to her customary gray flannel battle dress peeking from beneath, and secured a renegade strand of long red hair within the coiled knot at the nape of her neck.
I inverted one hand, keeping the other on Raina’s shoulder. “Well, Mom. What are you waiting for?”
“Oh, no, Celeste. This is your mess, and you shall clean it up.”
I scanned the crowded park, over swings halted in mid-swing and children’s exhilarated expressions frozen in time. My anxiety was nearing a fever pitch, and it was all I could do not to dance from one foot to the other. “I can’t, at least not as quickly as you could. Come on, Mom. Fix this!”
“I will not. While I’ve always been grateful you were a cautionary child, so unlike Nicholas, I took pride in the fact you were never a coward, Celeste. You can do this. You will do this.”
“How?”
Bianca puffed her cheeks. “Imagine a clock, then simply turn back the hands of time.”
“How many minutes? Do I need to be exact because—”
She shook her head. “The clock is merely a focal representation. Your lack of confidence is complicating the matter, dooming you to failure, Celeste. Do you recall the time Nicholas learned to ride a bicycle?”
I threw my arms sideways, the majority of my attention on the statue-like mortals around us. “Yes. What about it?”
“You refused to even sit on yours. You were so afraid of failing.”
I blew out my frustration. “What’s your point, Mom?”
“Nicholas sped away a short time after, clanging that wretched bell attached to the handlebars, and when he didn’t return right away, you set your fear aside without so much as a second thought, boarded yours, and off you went.”
I fixed my eyes on hers, knowing I would find all the self-assurance I needed there. Instead of a clock, I envisioned a bank of clouds rolling across the sky and persuaded them backward. Soon after, conversations restarted in midsentence. Children’s laughter once again filled the park. And before I could thank her, Bianca blew Raina and me a kiss and faded away.
Raina’s brows crinkled as she studied my face. “Mummy, your eyes are a curious yellow.” She covered my eyes with her hands and whispered, “We mustn’t let them see.”
By nine o’clock, I was pacing the floor. Where was Fane? I couldn’t very well take Raina with me to the station. I blew out my frustration; I had no choice but to call dispatch and inform the department I was taking a sick day. The call connected and I ended it when Fane’s aura arrived, fogging the room with a chartreuse glow and the faint but nauseating scent of decaying honeysuckle. His body followed a split-second later. He was the only member of the Realm to claim this strange phenomenon and the rationale behind it remained a mystery. I wondered if it had something to do with his perpetual hyperactive state.
“You know I have to get to work! Where have you been?”
Dressed in a gauzy Victorian gown, so thin it revealed the lacy bustier beneath, he threw himself on the sofa, sprawling across it seductively as if he were the nineteenth-century socialite Lillie Langtry and the couch was the bed belonging to her lover, Edward—the Prince of Wales. Fane smiled wickedly. “He was always Eddie to me.” He batted his eyelashes and expelled a melancholy sigh. “Try as I might, I could not resist seeing the battle with my own eyes. Little compares to our winsome warriors with their unmatched brute strength and cunning superiority on titillating display.”
“So that’s where you’ve been?”
“Indeed.”
“Dressed like that?”
He lifted his skirt, exposing his thighs, a broadsword with a gilded copper hilt, and a few other things I’d rather not have seen. “How else would I conceal my trusty saber?” His eyes were bloodshot but glinted gold and he popped upright. “Would you like to hear all about my rousing escapade?”
“Yeah, give me a second,” I said as my cell phone blasted Jeff Buckley’s rendition of Hallelujah.
I ended the call and grabbed my gear, slamming the door on Fane’s quizzical expression. According to Regina Ramirez, the two men responsible for the Budget Bizarre abduction were now in police custody.