Incarnate Page 8
Scarlett began to shake violently, grabbing her head as if in terrible pain. Kim watched, stunned, as a trickle of bloody water gurgled from her mouth and trailed down her chin and neck.
“Three . . . two . . .” she managed, swallowing hard. She had to regain her composure, for Scarlett’s sake. But the trickle turned to a gush, a steady flow of bloody water pouring from her mouth and splashing onto her shirt and the sofa.
“. . . One.”
Scarlett gave one last convulsive shudder, and went slack.
EIGHT
“Honey, you’re making me a little nauseated. I don’t suppose there’s any chance I could get you to sit still while we talk?”
Kim plopped back in her chair and studied the screen, where her father’s kind, familiar face smiled a little blurrily at her through the FaceTime session. “Sorry, Dad. It’s just, I do my best thinking when I’m on my feet.”
“Don’t I know it,” Roger Patterson chuckled. “Remember when you were fourteen, and we used to practice for the spelling bee while jogging around the block?”
Kim gave a small smile. Those had been maddening afternoons—maddening and also wonderful. Her father would offer up word after impossible word, then treat Kim to long, meandering definitions that dipped into many other disciplines, ignoring her pleas that all she had to know was how to spell the word, not every detail of its usage and etymology.
It was Roger Patterson who’d instilled intellectual curiosity in Kim, and that was one of only a thousand reasons she was missing him. But right now, she needed her father’s professional counsel more than she needed one of their leisurely conversations, so she swallowed down her homesickness and focused on the subject they’d been discussing.
“Anyway, I wish you could’ve seen it, Dad. It was like something out of The Exorcist.”
“Honey . . .”
“Sorry, I know how you feel about that movie.” Roger Patterson was a theology professor with a strong disdain for what he considered the entertainment industry’s grossly inaccurate portrayal of most religions. “But her voice . . . it sounded like she was underwater, and then she spit up this—this—liquid—”
“It may interest you to know that in The Exorcist, they used pea soup.”
“No kidding? That’s disgusting. No, this was like . . . bloody water.”
Roger looked intrigued, twirling his reading glasses by the stem. He was in his book-lined office in the house where Kim had lived for much of her childhood. Behind him, Kim could see the familiar artifacts from her parents’ travels sitting on the shelves between volumes.
“Was it real bloody water or merely ‘like’ bloody water?”
“Damn. Good question,” Kim said. “I should’ve taken a sample and gotten it tested. Didn’t think of it at the time.”
“You were spooked. Besides, real or not, even ‘testing’ can’t explain—”
“—all of life’s mysteries. I know, I know. But, Dad, I called for advice, not a theology lecture. I mean, medically speaking, it could be anything. Bronchitis. Pneumonia. A pulmonary embolism. Tuberculosis. Dieulafoy’s disease. Microscopic polyangiitis—”
Her dad held up a hand. “I’m sorry I asked. But listen, what’s with the fancy outfit? Do you have a date tonight?”
Kim looked down ruefully at herself. “It’s not a good sign if putting a shirt on that didn’t come from the hospital supply catalog qualifies for a special occasion. But no, for your information, I don’t have a date tonight. And don’t change the subject. What I still can’t explain is why one of her alters claims to be this missing girl, Isabel Wilcox. Unless . . . unless, God forbid, this Julian alternate personality actually did something to Isabel . . .”
“Or maybe your patient isn’t split,” he said pensively. “Maybe she is actually channeling the dead girl’s thoughts.”
Truthfully, this wasn’t the first time that idea had occurred to Kim. But it was so discordant with the way her medical colleagues thought, she’d instantly banished the notion every time it had appeared before. There was something satisfying about her father, a highly educated man, giving voice to the crazy theory. “But Isabel isn’t necessarily dead. She’s just missing.”
“Ah, yes. So you said.” Her father swiveled around in his chair and looked up at his collection of books, pondering. “Still . . . there have been recorded examples in many cultures of superhuman behavior in response to acute emotional duress. Communication with the dead is just one example. As humans we lean too heavily on a priori thinking when we encounter something unfamiliar, something that exceeds the boundaries of our experience.”
Hearing a knock at the door, Kim twisted away from the screen. “Hang on, Dad. I’m going to answer the door.” She opened it, and there was Kyle, dressed in a sport coat and pressed shirt, gold cuff links glinting at his wrists.
She gave him what she hoped was a bright smile. “Hi! Listen, I’m talking to my dad on FaceTime—do you mind? I’ll just be a few minutes.”
Kyle wandered over to the sofa, picking up a magazine from the coffee table. If he was annoyed, he didn’t show it. Always considerate, that was Kyle.
“I’m back, Dad.”
“Hear me out. There are cases, fully documented, of people speaking to the spirit world. And not just fortune-tellers—there’ve been spiritual leaders, respected shamans, even Thomas Edison tried to develop a device to communicate with the dead. If you give me a day or two, I’ll have more to tell you.”
Kim glanced at Kyle and made a cuckoo gesture, twirling her index finger at her ear. “My father. Early-stage dementia. You’ll have to forgive him.”
“Hey, I heard that,” Roger chided.
“You know I’m kidding! Listen, I got to go. I’ll call you later. Love you, ’bye,” Kim said.
“So that young man is the reason you’re not in scrubs for once?” her dad asked.
Kim clicked the button to end the session, and her father disappeared from the screen. Kyle gave her a searching look.
“Before you say anything,” Kim said hastily, “he’s a professor at Harvard seminary, not some crazy quack.”
Kim went to sit next to Kyle on the couch. She put her arms around him and kissed him hello, then pulled away, sensing that something was on his mind.
“Hey . . . did something happen with Scarlett today?” he asked.
“What? Um, no, why?”
Kyle frowned. “I wasn’t eavesdropping, but it was pretty clear that you and your dad were talking about the case.”
“Oh, come on, what you heard—”
“I’m not talking about the specifics of your conversation with your father, which are none of my business. But Scarlett Hascall is my business. And I know for a fact you didn’t have an appointment with her today. Kim . . . if you were in contact with her outside the course of treatment, it raises all kinds of questions for me. Questions we ought to deal with now before it becomes a bigger problem.”
Kim hesitated. The last person she wanted to lie to was Kyle, and not just because he was her boss. But telling him the truth now could have repercussions for both her personal and professional lives.
“Okay, okay, I just . . . need some time to put my thoughts together on her case. I’ll come to you when I’m ready . . . okay?” Before he could respond, she kissed him again. This time, she made sure that he’d lose track of what they’d been talking about.
NINE
The building didn’t look like much on the outside. A faded sign stenciled on the window still read PUPS ’N’ STUFF, and the paper peeling from the windows gave a glimpse into a dusty retail space with a few grimy plastic kennels in the corner. It would have been easy for Zack to miss the separate door leading down to the building’s basement, if he hadn’t pried the information out of Cherise with cash from the department’s discretionary fund. Two hundred dollars was only a fraction of what she’d once made for a few hours’ time in that very basement, but as she confided tearfully to Zack, she was no longer sure she was
cut out for that life anyway.
Cherise had explained that filming generally took place in the morning, so it was a little too early in the day for Zack to use his standard pizza-delivery-guy cover. Instead, he paid a visit to the municipal plant, where a friend from high school worked on the maintenance crew. The friend had been happy to loan him one of the town’s orange vests and hats and a clipboard marked with the town logo. Zack put on the vest before returning to the old pet store and rapping on the door. As he heard footsteps approaching on the other side, he wondered if it was too much to ask that Brad Chaplin would be on the other side. But when the door opened, it was a skinny young guy with an overgrown beard and ear gauges that hung down almost to his shoulders, Zack offered a quick glimpse of the fake ID card he’d created in Photoshop.
“Sewer issue,” he said. “Gotta take a quick look at the main down here. Doughnut shop up the street’s got six inches of sewage on the floor—hate to have that happen to you guys.”
The bearded guy looked over his shoulder nervously. “Yeah, well, it’s not really a good time.”
“Ha. It’s never a good time for a foot of raw sewage,” Zack said good-naturedly as he started to push past the guy.
“Listen. We’re doing a fashion shoot. Paying these models by the hour. You know?” The man was standing firm.
“Oh, sure. I mean, it won’t take long, I just need to clear you and I can be on my way. I can find the shutoff, you don’t even have to come with me, Mr. . . . ?”
“Olsen,” the man responded, then looked as though he wished he hadn’t. “I don’t know,” he added hurriedly, glancing over his shoulder. “How about you talk to the building manager and come back when he can let you in. I’m paying for the space by the hour and I need to finish up this session. I really can’t deal with delays today.”
“Huh,” Zack said, crinkling his nose as if sniffing the air. “Is that . . . oh hell, yeah, that’s how it starts. I hope you don’t have a lot of money invested in your equipment. You could have sewage up to your ankles so fast you won’t have time to get to the electrical. And you better tell your models to get out of there unless you want to watch ’em light up like Christmas trees.”
“What? I don’t smell anything,” the guy said, but he looked nervously down the hall.
“Tell you what: I’ll check it out down there; you turn off the main.”
Zack made a beeline for the stairs, taking them two at a time. Olsen followed, hot on his heels.
“Hey, I don’t know where the fuse box— Hey!”
“Oh, whoops!” Zack said in mock surprise as he threw open the door and stepped into a room lit with a dozen pink-toned bulbs. Lounging on a leopard-print throw on an enormous bed in the center of the room were three girls in various states of undress, all of them engrossed in their phones. When they noticed Zack, two of them grabbed for robes and hastily covered up. The third was hampered by the rope that bound both of her legs and one wrist to the bedposts, but she managed to use her free hand to pull a sheet up over herself.
“This is off-limits,” Olsen sputtered, rushing around the room picking up a variety of sexual accoutrements. Feathers, canes, clamps, candles all went flying. “And there’s no sewage here!”
“Yeah, that,” Zack sighed, pulling out his badge. “Unfortunately I moonlight as a cop, and I’m afraid I’m going to have to let someone know about the working conditions down here. I mean . . .” He toed an enormous fuchsia dildo that had rolled off the bed and clattered to the floor. “This looks downright unsanitary.”
“Motherfucker,” Olsen said in disgust, while one of the girls worked to untie her colleague and the other stuffed her belongings into an oversize handbag.
“Tell you what,” Zack said to Olsen after glancing at the table behind him. “Why don’t you head down to the doughnut shop for an hour or so. I was just kidding about the sewage thing. Have some coffee and give me a chance to talk to the, uh, models and I’ll see if I can figure out a way to clear this whole thing up.” He figured the girls might be more talkative without their “boss” present.
The guy was gone instantly, the metal stairs ringing with the sound of his retreating feet, never noticing that Zack had grabbed his wallet from where it sat on a nearby table—complete with Olsen’s ID. Timothy Olsen, 14 Seaview Lane. Born in ’95. Eyes: blue. Hair: brown. Zack would be paying the young man a visit a little later, right after he got a search warrant for 14 Seaview Lane.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” one of the girls demanded. “You can’t just come in here like this, it’s private property.”
Zack studied a display of DVD cases on a table, arranged in orderly stacks. It looked like the videos produced in this basement would only be sold on disc, never streamed, to limit their traceability. The titles on the spines seemed to follow a specific theme: Teen Slut Lesbo Orgy, Pop Her Teen Cherry, Barely Legal Ass Parade.
“Don’t worry, I’m not here to make trouble for any of you.” Zack continued down the stacks, noting variations in kink and tone, though all the DVDs featured young women until he reached the last stack, which, unlike the others, had been stored in a black plastic case. He lifted the lid and examined the DVD on top, which featured a naked, frightened-looking little girl who couldn’t have been older than ten or eleven. Zack swallowed down his revulsion and turned the case over, reading the lurid description on the back.
Zack regretted letting Tim skate so quickly, but now that search warrant would be an easy get. He was going to enjoy locking the scumbag away.
“We don’t have anything to do with that shit,” one of the girls said forcefully. “We’re all legal.”
“What do you know about this?” Zack said, going down the stack, noticing the ages of the children were going down, as well. Zack worked hard to shut down his emotions; the fury the images elicited in him would only cloud his judgment and interfere with his ability to go after the source of this evil. He forced himself to keep his tone even. “Were these filmed here in Jarvis?”
The girls glanced at one another. “No,” one said, at the same time one of the others said, “I don’t think so.”
Zack examined several more of the cases from the last stack, confirming that an entire sideline of child pornography was being offered for sale. He didn’t recognize any of the young girls’ faces. Many looked to be Native American Alaskans, probably residing in villages outside the reach of his law enforcement. While Alaska was one of the more beautiful places in the world, it also happened to have one of the highest incidents of sex crimes. There was one sex offender for every three-hundred-odd people, compared to almost twice that for the national average—and the child sexual assault average was six times the national average.
“Go ahead and get dressed,” Zack said. “I have just a few more questions for you.”
They did so quickly and silently, the atmosphere in the room charged with tension. Zack took a seat in the only chair in the room, pointedly looking the other way while they toweled off their heavy makeup and pulled on their clothes. Finally, when they were lined up on the edge of the bed in their jeans and sweatshirts and sneakers, Zack turned around to face what looked like three ordinary college girls.
“This is about Izzi, isn’t it?” the redhead said.
“What makes you say that?” Zack asked.
The girl who’d been tied up, a skinny blonde with a tattoo of a heart on her wrist, blinked rapidly. “I mean, everyone has been saying that she’s probably dead by now.”
“Who’s ‘everyone’?”
This brought him nothing but silence. A knock came at the top of the stairs, three blows in quick succession, a pause, and three more.
“Let me guess,” Zack said. “Secret password?”
“It’s just a customer,” the redhead offered. “Don’t answer, he’ll go away.”
“Maybe he’ll be more interested in having a conversation with me,” Zack said, walking up the stairs and putting his ear to the door. “Yeah?”
Zack recognized the line from Coleridge, raising an eyebrow and adjusting his opinion of the operation’s ringleader, who was apparently capable of a literary reference. If he wasn’t mistaken, the work in question had been written under the influence of opium, which dovetailed nicely with Brad Chaplin’s other enterprises. Zack opened the door and found himself face-to-face with a stooped old man in a greasy fishing hat and an ancient yellow Members Only jacket.
“Isn’t that from ‘Kubla Kahn’?”
The man looked at Zack in confusion. “Where’s Tim?”
“Tim had to step out, but I’m sure I can help you,” Zack said, taking the man’s arm and propelling him down into the basement. The man walked slowly, with a pronounced limp, one leg dragging behind the other. “What can we do for you today?”
The man looked past him at the girls, then back to Zack, putting two and two together. “I think I made a mistake. I’m looking for the . . . rehab facility. I have a physical therapy appointment.”
The redhead rolled her eyes as the man tried to sell the lie with a crooked smile that revealed one tooth that was trying to escape from his mouth, curled up and poking into his lip.
“I have to go,” the old man said, edging back toward the door. Each step seemed to hurt him; his bad leg came down hard, causing him what seemed like shuddering pain.
“Hang on, what’s the rush?” Zack said. He couldn’t detain the man without a reason, and it looked like he was smart enough not to give Zack one.
“Physical therapy,” he muttered again, letting the door slam behind him.
“Creep,” the redhead called after him.
Zack stared at the door where the man had exited, wondering just how many local men frequented this basement. Then he refocused on the girls. “Was Izzi involved in these?” Zack asked, returning the cases to the black box.
“Hell no. That’s Tim’s side gig. Izzi hated it. She wanted him to drop it.”