Die for Me (4 page)

“So what did she do?” Marta asked.

“Went crying to Ted. He gave her a refund, then came after me. ‘You can’t frighten the guests, Sophie,’” she mimicked. “I still remember the look on that woman’s face when I dragged her little brat over to her. She wasn’t much bigger than the kid. Nearly broke her neck looking up at me. It was one of the few times being tall was an asset.”

“You need better security in this place,” John commented, his eyes focused on the Viking Age sword he held. “It’s a wonder nobody’s walked off with any artifacts.”

Sophie frowned. “We have an alarm system, but you’re right. Before, hardly anyone knew we were here, but now, with all these tours, we definitely need a guard.” The salary for a guard had been in her operating budget for the coming year. But nooo . . . Ted wanted
paneling.
It was enough to make her twitch. “I know of at least two Italian reliquaries that are no longer on their shelf. I keep checking for them on eBay.”

“Makes you wish for medieval justice,” Spandan grumbled.

“What would have been the penalty for theft?” John asked, slanting a look up at her.

Sophie carefully settled the longsword back in the display case. “Depends on what point in the Middle Ages—early, high, or late—and on what was stolen, if it was stolen by force or by stealth, and who the victim was and who the thief was. Felony thieves might be hanged, but most small thefts were settled by recompense.”

“I thought they cut off a hand or gouged out an eye,” Bruce said.

“Not commonly,” Sophie told him, her lips quirking at his obvious disappointment. “It didn’t make sense for the lord to disfigure the people who were working his land. Without a hand or a foot they couldn’t make him as much money.”

“No exceptions?” Bruce asked and Sophie shot him an amused look.

“Bloodthirsty today, aren’t we? Hmm. Exceptions.” She considered it. “Outside Europe, there were cultures that certainly still practiced eye-for-an-eye justice. Thieves lost one hand and the opposite foot. In European culture, go back to the tenth century and you’ll find amputation of ‘the hand with which he did it’ as a punishment in the Anglo-Saxon Dooms. But the culprit had to be caught stealing from a church.”

“Your reliquaries would have been in a church back then,” Spandan pointed out.

Sophie had to chuckle. “Yes, they would have been, so it’s a damn good thing they were stolen from here and now, not there and then. Now your ‘creativity break’ is over. Put the swords away and get back to work.”

Sighing heavily they did as she asked, first Spandan, then Bruce and Marta. Until only John remained. In almost an offertory way, he lifted the sword with both hands and with both hands Sophie took it. Fondly she studied the stylized pommel. “I found one like this once, at a dig in Denmark. Not this nice, and not all in one piece. The blade had corroded completely through, right in the middle. But what a feeling it was, uncovering it for the first time. Like it had been sleeping for all those years and woke up, just for me.” She glanced down at him with an embarrassed laugh. “That sounds crazy, I know.”

His smile was solemn. “No, not crazy. You must miss it, being in the field.”

Sophie arranged the contents of the case and locked it. “Some days more than others. Today I miss it a great deal.” Tomorrow, when she was leading a tour in
period garb,
she’d miss it a great deal more. “Let’s go—”

Her cell phone rang, surprising her. Even Ted gave her one day of rest. “Hello?”

“Sophie, it’s Katherine. Are you alone?”

Sophie straightened at the urgency in Katherine’s voice. “No. Should I be?”

“Yes. I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

“Hold on. John, I need to take this. Can I meet you and the others in the hall in a few?” He nodded and turned his chair toward the Great Hall and the other students. When he was gone, she shut the door. “Go ahead, Katherine. What’s wrong?”

“I need your help.”

Katherine’s daughter Trisha had been Sophie’s best friend since kindergarten and Katherine had become the mother Sophie had never had. “Name it.”

“We need to excavate a field and we need to know where to dig.”

Sophie’s mind instantly put “medical examiner” and “excavation” together, conjuring a picture of a mass grave. She’d excavated dozens of gravesites over the years and knew exactly what needed to be done. She found her pulse increasing at the thought of doing real fieldwork again. “Where and when do you need me?”

“In a field about a half hour north of town, an hour ago.”

“Katherine, it’ll take me at least two hours to get my equipment up there.”

“Two hours? Why?” In the background Sophie heard several disgruntled voices.

“Because I’m at the museum and I have my bike. I can’t tie all that equipment to the seat. I have to go home first and get Gran’s car. Plus, I was going to sit with her this afternoon. I need to stop by the nursing home and check on her at least.”

“I’ll check on Anna myself. You go to the college and get the equipment. One of the detectives will meet you there and transport you and the equipment to the site.”

“Have him meet me in front of the humanities building at Whitman College. It’s the one with the funky ape sculpture in front. I’ll be out front by 1:30.”

There was more murmuring, more intense. “O
kay,
” Katherine said, exasperated. “Detective Ciccotelli wants to be sure you understand this is to be kept in the utmost confidence. You must exercise extreme discretion and say nothing to anyone.”

“Understood.” She returned to the Great Hall. “Guys, I need to go now.”

The students immediately began to gather their work. “Is your grandmother okay, Dr. J?” Bruce asked, his forehead creasing in concern.

Sophie hesitated. “She will be.” Not the whole truth and hopefully for Anna, not a lie. “For now, you get a few free hours this afternoon. Don’t have too much fun.”

When they were gone, she locked up, set the alarm, and headed toward Whitman College as fast as she legally dared, her heart beating rapidly in her chest. For months she’d been missing the field. It looked like she was finally about to find one.

Chapter Two

Sunday, January 14, 2:00
P.M.

H
e sat back in his chair and nodded at his computer screen, his lips curving in a satisfied smile. It was good. Very, very good.
If I do say so myself.
Which he did.

He raised his eyes to the still photos he’d taken from the video of Warren Keyes. He’d chosen his quarry well—height, weight, musculature. The young man’s tattoo had been Fate sealing the deal. Warren was meant to be his victim. He’d suffered brilliantly. The camera had captured the exquisite agony on his face. But his screams . . .

He clicked on an audio file and a chilling scream blasted from the speakers with crystal clarity, sending a shiver of pleasure racing down his back. Warren’s screams had been perfect. Perfect pitch, perfect intensity. Perfect inspiration.

His eyes moved to the canvases he’d hung next to the stills. This series of paintings might be his best work yet. He’d titled the series
Warren Dies.
It was done in oil, of course. He’d found oil the best medium for capturing the intensity of expression, the victim’s mouth stretching open on one of those perfect screams of excruciating pain.

And the eyes. He’d learned there were stages to death by torture. All were most clearly seen through the victim’s eyes. The first stage was fear, followed by defiance, then despair as the victim realized there was truly no escape. The fourth stage, hope, depended entirely on the victim’s tolerance for pain. If the victim persisted through the first wave, he might give them respite, just long enough to allow hope to surface. Warren Keyes had had a remarkable tolerance for pain.

Then, when all hope was gone, there was the fifth stage—the plea, the pitiful appeal for death, for release. Toward the end, there was stage six, the final surge of defiance, a primitive fight for survival that predated modern man.

But the seventh stage was the best and most elusive—the instant of death itself. The burst . . . the flash of energy as the corporeal yielded its essence. It was a moment so brief that even the camera lens was incapable of complete capture, so fleeting that the human eye would miss it if one weren’t expressly watching. He had been watching.

And he’d been rewarded. His eyes lingered on the seventh painting. Although last in the series, he’d painted it first, rushing to his easel while Warren’s released energy still vibrated along every nerve and Warren’s final, perfect scream still rang in his ears.

He saw
it
there, in Warren’s eyes. That indefinable
something
he alone had found in the instant of death. He’d first achieved it with
Claire Dies
more than a year ago. Had it really been that long? Time did fly when you were having fun. And he was finally having fun. He’d been chasing that indefinable
something
his entire life. He’d found it now.

Genius.
That’s what Jager Van Zandt called it. He’d first gained the entertainment mogul’s attention with
Claire,
and although he personally considered his
Zachary
and
Jared
series to be superior,
Claire
remained VZ’s favorite.

Of course, Van Zandt had never seen his paintings, only his computer animations in which he’d transformed Claire into “Clothilde,” a World War II Vichy French whore strangled to death by a soldier who’d been betrayed by her treachery. A crowd pleaser wherever the clip was shown, Clothilde had become the star of
Behind Enemy Lines,
Van Zandt’s latest “entertainment venture.”

Most people called them video games. Van Zandt liked to think he was building an entertainment empire. Before
Behind Enemy Lines,
VZ’s empire existed only in the man’s dreams. But VZ’s dreams had come true—
Behind Enemy Lines
had flown off the shelves—a runaway success thanks to Clothilde and the rest of his animations.
My art.

Van Zandt understood that as well and had chosen Clothilde, caught in her moment of death, to adorn the
Behind Enemy Lines
box. It always gave him a rush to see it, to know that the hands gripping “Clothilde’s” throat were his own.

VZ clearly recognized his genius, but he wasn’t sure the man could handle the reality of his art. So he’d go on letting VZ believe what he wanted to—that Clothilde was a fictional character and that his own name was Frasier Lewis. In the end both he and Van Zandt would get what they wanted. VZ would get a best-selling “entertainment venture” and make his millions.
And millions will see my art.

Which was the ultimate goal. He had a gift. VZ’s video game was merely the most efficient way to showcase that gift to the most people in the shortest time. Once he was established he wouldn’t need the animations. His paintings would be in demand on their own. But for now, he needed Van Zandt and Van Zandt needed him.

VZ was going to be very pleased with his latest work. He clicked his mouse and once again watched his animation of Warren Keyes. It was perfect. Every muscle and sinew rippled as the man struggled against his bonds, arching and writhing in pain as his bones were slowly pulled from their sockets. The blood looked good, too. Not too red. Very authentic. Careful study of the video had enabled him to duplicate every aspect of Warren’s body, down to the simplest twitch.

He’d done an especially skillful job with Warren’s face, capturing the fear and the defiance as Warren resisted the demands of his captor.
Which would be me.
The Inquisitor. He’d depicted himself as the old man who’d lured Warren to his dungeon.

Speaking of such, now that
Warren Dies
was complete it was time to lure his next victim. He opened UCanModel, the delightful little website with which he’d had such success in locating the perfect faces for his work. For a modest fee, actors and models could post their portfolios on UCanModel so that any Hollywood director had only to click on their picture to launch them to instant stardom.

Actors and models made the perfect subjects. They had beauty, the ability to emote, and their faces translated well to film and canvas. They also were so eager for fame and so poor that they’d take just about any job. Luring them with a part in a documentary had worked every time and allowed him to purport himself as the nonthreatening old history professor named Ed Munch. He was getting tired of being Edvard Munch, though. Maybe he’d be Hieronymus Bosch next time. Now,
there
was artistic genius.

He perused the lineup his current search had produced. He’d identified fifteen prospects, but he’d already eliminated all but five. The others weren’t nearly poor enough to be easily hooked. Of the five, only three were truly destitute. His financial checks had shown them all to be in or on the verge of bankruptcy.

He’d shadowed these three prospects for a week and found only one to be solitary and secretive enough not to be missed afterward. That was an important component. His victims must not have anyone to look for them. They were runaways like pretty Brittany with her folded hands. Or, like Warren and Billy before him, they had to be so secretive that no one would know they’d been contacted.

Of all the current candidates, Gregory Sanders was the perfect choice. Rejected and cast out by his family, Sanders was alone. This he’d found the night before when he’d followed Sanders to his favorite bar. Disguised as an out-of-town businessman, he’d bought Sanders a few drinks and waited until the man blubbered his sad tale. Sanders had no one. So he was perfect.

Clicking Gregory’s contact button, he zipped off his standard e-mail, confident in the steps he’d taken to mask his own identity, both physical and electronic. By tomorrow, Greg would accept his offer. By Tuesday, he’d have a new victim. And a new scream.

He pushed away from his desk and stiffly came to his feet, rubbing his right thigh. Damn these Philly winters. The pain was bad today. Apart from the sheer thrill, his art accomplished another important benefit—while he painted, he could forget about the phantom pains for which there was no treatment. No cure. No goddamn relief.

He’d reached the door of his studio when he remembered.
Tuesday.
The old man’s bills were due on Tuesday. Paying them was a necessity. As long as the mortgage and utilities were paid on time, no one would wonder where the old man and his wife had gone. No one would look for them, which was the way he wanted it. He walked back to his computer. He’d be busy with his new victim on Tuesday, so he’d pay the bills now.

Dutton, Georgia, Sunday, January 14, 2:15
P.M.

“I appreciate you coming so quick, Daniel.” Sheriff Frank Loomis threw a glance over his shoulder before turning to unlock the front door. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

Daniel Vartanian knew the observation was fair. “He’s still my father, Frank.”

“Uh-huh.” Frank frowned when the lock didn’t budge. “I was sure that was the one. I’ve had this key since the last time your folks took a long vacation.”

Daniel watched Frank try five different keys, the feeling of apprehension in his gut swelling to dark dread. “I’ve got a key.”

Frank stepped back with a glare. “Then why the hell didn’t you say so, boy?”

Daniel lifted a brow. “Wouldn’t want to go steppin’ on toes,” he said sarcastically. “‘Jurisdictions bein’ what they are.’” The words had been Frank’s own, uttered just last night when he’d called to say Daniel’s parents might be missing.

“Pull that GBI stick outta your ass,
Special Agent
Vartanian, or I will, and then I’ll whip you with it.” The threat was not an idle one. Frank had tanned Daniel’s hide more than once for one prank or another. But it was because Frank cared, which was more than he could say for his father. Judge Arthur Vartanian had been too busy to care.

“Don’t knock those GBI sticks,” Daniel said mildly, though his heart had begun to pound. “They’re the latest technology, like all our toys. Even you might be impressed.”

“Damn bureaucrats,” Frank muttered. “Offer ‘technology’ and ‘expertise,’ but only if they run the show. Give ’em an inch and pretty soon they’ve descended like locusts.”

That, too, was a fair observation, although Daniel doubted his superiors at the Georgia Bureau of Investigation would see it as such. He’d found the key, but now had to focus on steadying his trembling hand. “I’m one of those locusts, Frank,” he said.

Frank huffed, irritated. “Dammit, Daniel, you know what I meant. Art and Carol are your parents. I called you, not the GBI. I don’t want my county overrun by bureaucrats.”

Daniel’s key didn’t fit the lock either. But it had been a long time, so that in and of itself was not a cause for alarm. “When was the last time you saw them?”

“November. About two weeks before Thanksgivin’. Your mama was headed in to Angie’s and your daddy was down at the courthouse.”

“Then it was a Wednesday,” Daniel said and Frank nodded. Angie’s was the town’s beauty shop where his mother had kept a standing Wednesday appointment since before he was born. “But why was Dad at the courthouse?”

“Retirement was hard on your father. He missed the work. The people.”

Arthur Vartanian missed the power of being the circuit court judge in a little Georgia town,
Daniel thought, but kept it to himself. “You said my mother’s doctor called you.”

“Yes. That’s when I realized how long it had been since I’d seen either of them.” Frank sighed. “I’m sorry, son. I assumed she’d at least told you and Susannah.”

That his mother had kept such a thing from her own children had been hard to accept. Breast cancer. She’d had surgery and chemo and had never said a word.

“Yeah, well, things haven’t been so good between any of us for a while.”

“Your mama missed several appointments, so the nurse got worried and called me. I checked around and found your mother told Angie she and your father were going to visit your grandma in Memphis the day she canceled her December hair appointments.”

“But they didn’t go to Memphis.”

“No. Your grandma said that your mother told her that they were spending the holidays with your sister, but when I called Susannah she said she hadn’t heard from your parents in more than a year. That’s when I called you.”

“That’s just too many lies, Frank,” Daniel said. “We’re going in.” He shattered the small windowpane to the side of the door with his elbow, reached in and unlocked the door. The house was quiet as a tomb and smelled musty.

Stepping over the threshold was like stepping back in time. In his mind Daniel saw his father standing at the foot of the stairs, his knuckles battered and bloody. Mama stood at his father’s side, tears running down her face. Susannah stood alone, a desperate plea on her face for him to abandon the confrontation that she didn’t understand. It would be easier on Susannah if she never knew, so he’d never told her.

He’d walked away, planning never to return. The best-laid plans . . . “You take the upstairs, Frank. I’ll take this level and the basement.”

Daniel’s first look confirmed his parents had gone on a trip. The water was off and every appliance unplugged. His mother had a fear of fire by toaster oven, he recalled.

He cleared the first floor and heart pounding, descended into the basement, visions of bodies he’d found throughout his years as a cop bombarding his mind. But there was no smell of death and the basement was as orderly as it had always been. He climbed the stairs to find Frank waiting in the hall by the front door.