Three Years Earlier
Sam
POLICE RECOVERED THE body of a thirty-year-old woman last night. After two weeks, my sister’s murder is no longer the lead story in the papers. The public has reduced Joyce Russo to one of Incubus’s victims. In my dreams, I lie beside her on that frozen riverbank. She whispers in my ear and begs me to avenge her murder. My inadequacy traps her between worlds. Until she rests, I’ll never find peace.
I’ve spent six years studying clinical psychology. You can’t go around grief. You have to go through it. But my anger paralyzes me. My hatred for Incubus consumes me. Only when his blood coats my hands will I be free. But to hunt him, I must understand him. His acts have significance that extends beyond the pleasure of the kill.
A friend on the police force sent me copies of the crime scene photos. I have burned every detail into my mind. The lily calling card has meaning for Incubus. Many people associate lilies with funerals because the flower symbolizes restoration of innocence in death. In Greek mythology, the lily is a symbol of motherhood because milk that spilled from Hera’s breast transformed into the flower. In Christian theology, a white lily represents the qualities of the Virgin Mary. One victim connection is that none of the women had children. Immaculate Conception in death is what I think that lily means to Incubus. Perhaps he suffers erectile dysfunction or infertility and blames the impurity of women for his condition.
After tedious research, I’m positive his calling card is a tetraploid strain called Lilium Ice Cave. The snowy white flower with the pale green throat blossoms in July. Incubus grows them in a winter greenhouse. If he bought them, police would know from where, and they don’t.
Yesterday, I realized what’s wrong with the lily he left in my sister’s hands. In the crime scene photo, there is a circle of stamen extending from the bottom of the blossom, but there isn’t a pistil in the centre. Incubus removed the carpel. The same is true on the tattoo that disfigures all the women’s ankles. He tears out his victims’ wombs and he rips out the lily’s female reproductive parts.
Detective Mansfield doesn’t believe that I remembered this tiny detail from what I witnessed at the crime scene. He didn’t ask how I obtained copies of the official photos, but I need to be careful with him. He’s warned me twice to stay out of his investigation, and the second time he included a threat. Bryce confirmed that police know about the mutilation of the lily. They also suspect that the monster grows them. He claims they’re close to catching him. That cannot happen. I must find Incubus first. Without death, there will be no justice.
Close to midnight, my cell rings and I shift my dry eyes from the gruesome pictures that litter my office desk.
When I pick up, Lorna says, “So Mr. Lutz is out of jail. He’s parked outside, sitting in a red Honda.” She sighs. “I want to talk to him. You know, find out what he wants.”
I think about the dead expression in his eyes while we waited for police.
“The creep is unbalanced,” I say firmly. “Please trust me and stay in the house with the doors locked. I’ll be right over.”
She sighs with annoyance but agrees and we disconnect.
Stopping Incubus tonight isn’t possible, but I can put the fear of God into Jerry Lutz. After I grab my keys, I drive to Yorkville.
A red Honda sedan idles outside Lorna’s front door. Lutz has upped his game. Instead of skulking like the rodent he is, he’s making sure she knows he’s spying on her. I hang back a block away and wait for him to leave. Let’s see how he enjoys a stalker.
The car remains stationary for close to half an hour. Jerry keeps the engine running, and the interior light illuminates the back of his head. Just after one a.m., the interior light snaps off and the car pulls into the street. It turns left and I follow.
Jerry travels north to the highway and moderate traffic allows me to keep a few cars between us, not that I care if he spots me. Ninety minutes north of Toronto, he exits the highway and treks along back roads. According to my GPS, we’re moving northeast. After multiple turns, we follow an old country highway that cuts through an escarpment. The moon is full and cloud cover is light but it’s drizzling and I don’t want to be stuck in the wilderness during an ice storm. I consider turning back but I’m curious about where he’s going.
An hour later, I navigate a sharp curve. The flicker of taillights is gone. As the road straightens, I catch a glimpse of red in the woods to my right. Maintaining my speed, I peer into the bush. Brake lights shine on a narrow road. It has to be Jerry. I continue past but memorize the location of the lane.
About a half-kilometre along the two-lane road, there’s a spot to turn and I circle back to the lane. The idling car is gone.
My Grand Am bounces over potholes in the uneven dirt road. About a kilometre in, a sensation of unease engulfs me. My gut instinct is screaming at me to get the car out of sight. Without rationalizing it, I kill my headlights and pull into an opening between the evergreens. The moonlight is bright but visibility within the shadows of the towering trees is poor. I stop the car and grab a flashlight from the glove compartment. Then I remember the night vision monocular that Joyce gave me. Turning, I rummage in the backseat until I find the gift box.
I walk back to the lane and peer through the scope. A dilapidated house looms in the distance. Five minutes into the hike, there’s a drone from an approaching engine. I dive into wet forest brush and lie flat against the cold ground. The red Honda drives by without slowing.
Standing, I brush wet leaves off my jeans and walk to the house. There are no vehicles parked in the yard and no smoke from the chimney. A red light flashes above the door. Three seconds later, it blinks again. Backing into the cover of the trees, I examine the porch through the night vision lens. A CCTV camera hangs above the front door. Avoiding the camera’s arc, I round the house. The high foundation implies there’s a cellar. If it’s a hunting lodge, it’s doubtful that Jerry drags his murdered animals through the house. There must be an exterior entrance to access a butchering and curing room.
Searching for cameras, I circle the house. Flat brown cellar doors arch from the ground and extend two metres up the stone foundation. There is no camera. A centre deadbolt lock secures the cellar doors. I trot over and kneel. It’s a basic pin-tumbler design.
Pulling off my gloves with my teeth, I remove a pick set from my wallet and pop out the tension wrench and Bogota rake. Placing the wrench at the bottom of the key hole, I apply just enough pressure to let the driver pins rise before inserting the rake at the top of the lock and sliding it to the back. I feel for the right torque on the wrench and scrub the rake back and forth to set the pins. It takes a few tries but the driver pins clear the shear line. There’s a click and I tug open the doors.
Cement steps slope into a dark hole. I wiggle my fingers into the tight gloves and switch on my flashlight. Ducking my head, I descend the stairs. A fetid odour of decay fills my nose. A rodent’s faint scratching causes the hair to rise on my neck.
A narrow corridor leads to a door. It swings open when I push on it. It’s an empty space with a dirt floor. A freestanding staircase ascends to ground level. Swinging my flashlight beam around the circumference, I realize the dimensions are wrong. It’s the correct width, but there must be another chamber beside this one. Returning to the corridor, I spot a second door. As soon as it opens, a coppery reek of blood makes me gag. Staggering back, I pull the edge of my turtleneck over my mouth and nose. This must be where Jerry butchers his slaughtered animals. The strong LED beam illuminates the interior and my face slackens with shock. My brain struggles to process what my eyes insist is there. The heavy flashlight shakes in my trembling hand.
In the centre of the room is a black medical exam table with steel legs. Brown leather restraints circle the outstretched metal stirrups. Bolted at the table’s midpoint is a second set of restraints with buckles. Beneath the edge of the exam table is a puddle of gelatinous liquid pooled on the soil floor. A gluttonous rat feeds on the substance. Its red eyes glare at me and it crouches on its hind legs and hisses, baring its sharp yellow teeth.
Beside the right stirrup is a stainless-steel trolley with wheels. On top is a case with diamond-embossed surface panels surrounded by an aluminum frame. There are two shiny U-snap latches and a sturdy handle on the front panel. To the far side of the left stirrup is a stainless-steel instrument table with four swivel casters and a crank handle to adjust the height. Shiny surgical tools lie on a blue sheet. A three-tier makeup palette rests beside it. There are two stools at the base of the exam table.
Below the right stirrup is a foot pedal with a thick blue cord winding up to the trolley. A brass connector on the end of the cable rests like a snake’s head beside the closed black case.
Air whistles out of my gaping mouth. I lurch toward the table, kicking the rat’s fat body and moaning as I crouch beneath the stirrups. A sweet, pungent odour fills my nose and the metallic stench plugs my throat. The puddle of gore is sticky beneath my fingertips.
“No,” I whisper. “This can’t be right. This isn’t right.”
I crawl to the trolley with the black case on top, knocking over one of the stools as I grapple to clutch the metal edge. My heart gallops in my chest and white noise fills my head.
Fumbling, I unlatch the two silver clips and open the case. Perched inside high-density black foam dividers are four giant silver pens with palm-sized steel frames that hold dual coils. Attached to the thick metal barrel of the pen is a tapered tube. Below the tattoo guns is a power supply. Nestled inside cut inserts in the lid are half a dozen different size steel tips. Bottles of ink stand upright in pockets at the bottom of the case.
A guttural yelp tears from my throat. Clasping my hand against my mouth, I spin in a circle, unable to compute the horrors that flash before my eyes.
Joyce’s naked body lying on the medical table with her legs secured to the stirrups. A high-pitched whine of a tattoo gun as the needle plunges into her tender skin. A fastidious hand wiping away a bead of crimson as a hideous lily emerges against the gentle curve of her ankle. The silhouette of a man hunched between my sister’s thighs. Her agonized screams as he pierces her cervix and scrapes away her uterus.
Powerless to stop the vision of Joyce’s blood gushing from her body to soak the ground, I scream until my throat is raw. I hurl a stool and shove over the trolley. The alloy box containing the tattoo guns falls and lies with the lid ajar beside the puddle of blood.
Howling, I drop to my knees and dig my hand into the bloody sludge. Did my sister pray that I’d save her before the last of her life dripped from her mutilated womb?
I move elsewhere in my mind. My hand opens and the blood-soaked dirt falls away. I no longer sense the dampness of the cellar or smell the reek of death. My sight narrows to a pinpoint of white through a hazy wash of red. My breath grows shallow and my arms fall limp against my sides. Emotional detachment washes over me.
Jerry Lutz is Incubus.
With jerky movements, I pick up the tattoo kit and secure the lid before I place it on the trolley. On deadened legs, I trudge to a stool and roll it into position by the right stirrup. I set the instrument table where I first saw it and brush the blood-tainted soil from the exam table.
The torture chamber looks exactly as it did. I back out and follow the corridor to the stairs. Outside, an orange and yellow glow tinges the eastern sky. It’s sunrise. Hours passed while my soul perished in that cellar. The noise in my head fades. Kneeling, I remove my gloves and select my tools. There is nothing but the wrench in my left hand, the rake in my right, and the open lock. With laser focus, I relock the deadbolt and use my scarf to wipe away my fingerprints.
Incubus will never know anyone found his lair. When the final flicker of light extinguishes in Jerry Lutz’s eyes, Joyce will have her revenge. I will be free.