Semmes parked in front of the warehouse he’d been at the night before. The gate was still closed tight, and now a padlocked chain secured the gate closed. He watched the place for an hour before making his move. After no one came in or out of the place, he got out of his car. His 9mm rubbed the small of his back as it sat in its clamshell holster. He opened the trunk of his car and took out a pair of bolt cutters.
The street was well lit by street lamps. Their hum was the only noise except for the faint sound of work going on inside the place. Semmes put the padlock’s arm into the jaws of the bolt cutters. With a little effort and a good twist, the metal snapped in two. He took the lock out of the links of the chain. The gate slid open with ease. The chain dragged through the fence’s links, filling the air with its metallic sound. Semmes kept looking at the warehouse and then down the street both ways. His eyes never stopped moving until he’d opened the gate enough to slip inside. He propped his bolt cutters against the fence and pulled his pistol from the holster.
Semmes walked straight across the parking lot to the door of the warehouse. The knob twisted, and he opened it enough to peek inside. The door led into an office area. All the lights in the room were off, but enough spilled in from the adjacent room that he could see the clutter around. He stepped inside, closing the door carefully behind him. Noise came from the other room. Hammering and grunting kept step with each other. An occasional buzz of an electric saw drowned out the rest. Semmes slipped across the room to a desk that stood against the far wall. It was covered with papers, but the light at that end of the room was much dimmer. He shuffled a few of the top sheets. They were pink carbon copy receipts from hardware stores. He could only make out the stationery logo. The inventory lists were handwritten, and the scarce light made the lettering difficult to read. He riffled through more papers. Some he could read better than others. There was a computer printout from a Mardi Gras supply store. Another was for costumes. Nothing seemed incriminating, or worth breaking in for.
Semmes opened the middle draw of the desk. The light was enough for him to see several printouts from the Mobile Press-Register. He took one and leaned into better light. The headline read: Psychology Professor at Alabama Tech has Scientific Law Named for Him. A picture was beside the article. He didn’t recognize the man in the picture, but the caption identified him as Erik Rogers. Ashe had told him that he worked with a professor named Rogers.
He put that article back into the drawer and pulled out the next. It was a much larger write-up. The printout was folded in the middle. Two Alabama Tech Professors Record First Emotion. This time the large photo was of Rogers and Ashe. They both held small devices in their hands. Something about this bit of newspaper felt important to Semmes. He folded it up and stuck it into his pocket. The next bit of paper he brought out was Marianne’s obituary.
The noise in the adjacent room stopped. Semmes felt eyes watching him. He turned to the door, still holding his gun and the obituary. A woman stood behind him. The shadows obscured her face.
“Why are you here?”
“I’m Detective Semmes of the Mobile Police.”
“I know who you are. I asked why you are here.”
“Official police business.” He squinted trying to get a better look at the woman. “We have reason to believe this organization might be related to a missing person from Birmingham.”
“Is that correct?” the woman asked. Her voice and speech seemed artificial in some way.
She flipped the light on. It blinded him, and he turned to the side to regain his vision. When he looked up, he almost lost his breath. The woman in the doorway was Marianne.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“I have already asked that question to you,” she said.
“I’ve been trying to find you, Marianne. Ashe is very worried. How did they mistake you for dead?”
“I am not dead,” she said, “and I do not know this Marianne. My name is Ursula. Do you have a warrant, Detective Semmes?”
“Now that I’ve found you here, I don’t need one.”
Semmes eased toward the exit. He’d dealt with crazy people before. They could be unpredictable and stronger than normal. The last thing he needed was for her to attack him or cause any sort of ruckus. He needed to get back to his car and call for backup.
“I do not know what you are talking about. I have always been here.”
“No, you haven’t. You’re name is Marianne Lenard. You were Ashley Shrove’s fiancée, and about a week ago, you walked out of the morgue at University Hospital.”
Marianne or whatever she called herself looked at him with amber eyes. Nothing seemed to look back. It was almost like having a staring contest with a doll. Crazy people would look at someone like that sometimes. Semmes remembered reading something about a psychological disorder where people forgot their identities and made up new ones. He wondered if this had happened to Marianne.
“My name is Ursula van Beckum, and we cannot allow you to leave.”
“Try and stop me.”
The door at Semmes’ back pushed inward. It knocked him off balance. He stumbled forward, looking behind him. Eddy Bertram, the dead college student who walked out of Providence Hospital’s morgue, came through the door. Gaining his footing, he stood and put his back to the wall so that Bertram was to one side and Marianne to the other. Now another woman joined the group. It was Carol Heinz. None of them looked normal. They all stared at him with amber, doll eyes.
“I don’t know what’s going on, but if any one of you tries to do anything I’ll shoot,” Semmes said.
In all his years on the force, this was the first time he knew he’d have to shoot his way out of the situation. His mouth was dry, and his throat started to clamp shut. They laughed, and Bertram advanced on him. Not thinking twice, and running on almost total adrenaline, Semmes aimed his 9mm and squeezed the trigger. Bertram jerked back as the bullet went into his chest, but he kept coming toward Semmes. Blood poured down the student’s body. It spurted out with force. Some of it hit Semmes in the face.
He shot again and again. More wounds opened up in Bertram, but it didn’t stop him. Semmes dropped his pistol as the student grabbed him around the neck with both hands. Fingers pressed deep into his throat. His windpipe started to crush inward. The pain was like nothing he’d felt before.
Black spots began to dance around in Semmes’ vision. Thoughts came quick and jumbled to his mind. He guessed he was having that life-before-your-eyes flashback. That was the last thought he formed before he felt his spine crushing into his windpipe, and then snapping.