Ash Return of the Beast

CHAPTER 2



The next morning Kane scanned through the pages of Wheeler’s report. The results of the autopsy of the second victim were nearly identical to those of the first. The cause of death, in both cases, was heart attack even though both victims were in excellent health. And again there was not a trace of hair, skin, semen or fingerprints.

Kane washed down the last bite of his morning donut with a swig of coffee. I don’t like it. Doesn’t make any sense. Two preachers, both die from heart attacks and then some creep comes along, does the nasty with the corpses, shoves a f*ckin’ Batman coin into their mouth and then somehow brands them with weird symbols? No fingerprints? No sign of a struggle? He shook his head. It’s just goddamn weird.

Wheeler knocked on Kane’s door and walked in. “I take it you’ve read the report?”

Kane looked up. “Hey, Mitch. Sorry about yesterday. I wasn’t in my best mood.”

“No problem. So what do you think?”

“I don’t know what to think. The weird thing––or at least one of the weird things––is that it doesn’t really look like we’re dealing with a homicide. That’s what I can’t wrap my brain around. Doesn’t look like anybody killed anybody. You know what I mean? We got two dead guys, both died from heart attacks, no sign of a struggle, nothing.”

Mitch nodded. “Well, there is something. The Batman coins and the branded markings. Those were clearly applied by somebody. Somehow.”

“Yeah. Crazy designs. Looks like something my daughter would have scribbled when she was little. Except for the one on their foreheads. That design––whatever the hell it is––it’s pretty complex. Like there’s some geometry to it.”

“You have a daughter?”

“What?”

“You mentioned your daughter.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sarah. She’s ten, now. Still can’t draw for crap. Takes after her ol’ man.”

Mitch smiled. “I didn’t know you were married.”

“Divorced.”

“Oh?” Mitch said, waiting for the rest of the story.

Kane gave a perturbed look. “What––you writing a book?”

Mitch held up his hands and backed off. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry.”

“Yeah, well…” Kane said, pouring himself another cup of coffee. “Long, sad story and I’m fresh out of violins.”

“Sorry. I just thought––”

“Well, don’t.” Kane spat the words out. It was an order, not a request.

Mitch got the point. “So, what do you want me to do now?”

Kane turned away from Mitch and stood staring out the window. “For starters you can get the f*ck out of my office.”

Wheeler had heard about––was warned about––the Lieutenant’s erratic personality: a nice guy one minute and a prickly a*shole the next. But hearing about it and experiencing it were two different things. Without another word he took his leave and gently closed the door behind him.

Kane turned from the window and sat down at his desk. He reached into the side drawer, pulled out a photo of his daughter and stared at it. His face was solemn. A grim sort of sadness welled up inside and he brushed a bit of moisture from the corner of his eye. It was the last photo he’d taken of her before the accident. His fingers traced the contours of her face as he relived the day, five years ago, when that pleasant sunny, summer morning quickly transitioned into a nightmare.

Sarah had just finished breakfast when he scooped her up in his arms.

“Hey Squirt,” he said, staring into her bright blue eyes. “You want to see where daddy works?”

“Yeah!” she squealed. “When?”

“Right now,” he said, laughing.

His wife, Linda, had been watching them.

Kane turned to her. “Okay with you, babe?”

Linda shook her head as her fingers unconsciously kneaded and twisted the terrycloth dishtowel in her hands. Even though she’d known what she was getting into by marrying a cop, she still didn’t like the whole cop thing. It was a gritty, dangerous business and she didn’t like the idea of her five-year-old daughter getting too close to it. “Not really,” she said, glaring at her husband.

Sarah pleaded. “But, Mommy…”

Kane put Sarah down and looked at his wife. He gently lifted the dishtowel from her hands and draped it over the sink. “Yeah, Mommy. Come on. What can it hurt? I’ll have her back by lunch.”

Reluctantly, and with a heavy sigh, Linda gave in. “By lunch,” she said.

“By lunch,” Kane echoed, confirming the deal. He grabbed Sarah up and threw his wife a kiss as he and the true love of his life, his little Squirt, danced a fox trot out the front door.

Sarah sampled every station on the car radio during the 10-mile drive into town. Other than that, the trip had been uneventful until they turned the corner at Jackson Street, one block from the precinct building. A man with a ski mask covering his face, a paper bag in one hand, a handgun in the other, had raced out the door of a pawnshop and into the street directly in front of Kane’s car. Kane slammed on the brakes. The gunman panicked, stumbled backward and the gun went off. The bullet shattered Kane’s front windshield and ripped a chunk out of the side of Sarah’s face. The scar she would live with for the rest of her life––unsightly as it was––was not as deep and ugly as the one that would mark Kane’s soul forever. Even his wife’s lack of forgiveness could not match his own inability to forgive himself.

It was an accident, his friends and colleagues tried to convince him. There was nothing you could have done to prevent it.

Yes there was. I could have taken the turn at Cherry instead of Jackson. I could have waited just two more minutes before leaving the house. I could have given in to Linda and not have taken Sarah in the first place. There were a dozen things I could have done.

“Lieutenant?”

The voice brought him back into the moment. He looked up. It was Tom Bower, the nearly retired street cop who’d been pushing a pencil for the past year at the desk just outside the door to Kane’s office.

“Someone here to see you.” Bower said.

Kane slipped the photo of Sarah back into the drawer. “Who is it?”

“F.B.I.”

“What?”

“Special Agent, Rowena Ravenwood.”

“Ravenwood? Never heard of her. She look like an old wooden crow?” He didn’t like it when the F.B.I. butted into his investigations. They tended to keep information to themselves and then took all the glory when the case was solved. On the other hand, when a case went unsolved Kane took all the flak. It pissed him off but, like a law of nature, there was nothing he could do about it.

Bower didn’t reply.

Kane nodded. “All right. Send her in.”

Ravenwood’s entrance––briefcase in hand––was all business… and a visual surprise. With the name of Rowena, Kane had imagined a frumpy, old librarian-type in a wrinkled gray tweed suit. This woman was tall, attractive, supermodel-slender and appeared to be in her late 30s, early 40s.

Kane tried not to look impressed. Actually, he tried not to look at all, but it was impossible. Her deep-set eyes, light copper complexion and high cheekbones suggested Native American genetics. Her straight, black hair reached a few inches below her shoulders and was streaked with signs of approaching gray which, in this case, only enhanced the sex appeal that a woman like her can never adequately conceal.

Her moderately low-cut beige top contrasted fashionably under a tailored black denim jacket that matched the black denim boot-cut jeans. It was all certainly unconventional attire for an FBI agent on duty, not to mention the turquoise and silver jewelry that adorned her fingers and caressed her narrow wrists. How the hell does she get away with that? In her 2-inch black patent leather heels, she clicked confidently across the floor and stopped a couple feet from his desk. She introduced herself by name and flashed her I.D.

Kane didn’t bother standing up to greet her. No matter how great she looked, she was still FBI. He was determined not to like her. “Have a seat,” he said. “What can I do for you, Ms. Ravenwood?”

He knew she would probably prefer to be addressed as Special Agent, Ravenwood but he wasn’t about to give her that satisfaction. He did, however––and with some reluctance––offer her a chair.

Special Agent Ravenwood removed her jacket, draped it over the back of the chair, and took a seat. Having been briefed on Kane’s often-explosive personality and his dislike of the FBI, she was ready to defuse him from the get-go. “Please,” she said, flashing her most disarming smile, “call me Ro.”

“All right… Ro.” Christ, I can’t believe I just fell for that. “What can I do for you?”

She drew a document-sized envelope from her briefcase and handed it to him. “I’ve been assigned to assist you with the investigation of the case.”

“Hmm. What case would that be?” He knew full well she must mean the case involving the deceased preachers.

She nodded toward the envelope.

Kane opened it. “Ah,” he said, looking at the first page of the documents. “That case.”

She nodded toward the documents again, implying that he should look further. He flipped to the next page and was surprised to see graphic renderings of the same strange symbols that were found on the two dead bodies in question.

“How did you know about these?” he asked. “None of the photographs of the bodies have been released to anyone on the outside.”

She shrugged. “We’re the FBI.”

In Kane’s ears her words came across as ‘We’re the bane of your existence.’

“Yes,” he said. “You certainly are.” He tossed the document onto his desk and leaned back in his chair. “So what makes you think I need help with this case? We’ve barely begun our investigation. I don’t see why––”

Ravenwood subtly raised a hand to cut him off as she scooted forward in her chair. “First of all, I’m not the bad guy. Okay? I’ve been sent here to help you find the bad guy.”

The comment came within a hair of lighting Kane’s fuse. He leaned forward to meet her eye-to-eye from across his desk. “Listen Ms. Ravenwood––”

“Ro.”

Christ. “Ro. Whatever. We do a pretty damn good job of catching the bad guys on our own. So how about you go away and if we need you we’ll call you. How’s that sound?”

“Trust me,” she said. “You’re going to need me on this one.”

“Really? And what makes you so sure? Do you already know something you’re not telling me? Damn it! That’s what ticks me off about you guys.”

“Okay,” she said. “Listen. I’ve been through the files you’ve put together on this case. I know everything you know about it. And, yes, I know a little more than you do.”

Kane threw up his hands. “Of course you do.”

“No, wait. I am going to tell you what I know, but…” she paused a moment.

“But––?”

“Well, it’s just that you’re not going to like what I have to tell you.”

Kane laughed. “Look, lady––”

“Ro.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. All right. Ro! Jesus. I already don’t like you even being here. But seeing as how you are here––and apparently you’re not gonna go away––why don’t you just go ahead and lay it on me?”

Ravenwood smiled. She was actually beginning to like this son-of-a-bitch. She had an extraordinarily well-honed sense of intuition and that was only one of the unusual attributes that made her so valuable to the special unit to which she was attached. At the moment, this intuition was telling her that the man sitting in front of her had an inner Teddy Bear with more soft stuffing than he would generally admit to anyone, least of all to himself.

“All right,” she said. “Here it is. I’m a profiler of sorts with a special unit called the A.P.U.”

Kane shook his head. “Never heard of it. What is it?”

“The Anomalous Phenomena Unit.”

Kane despised big words about as much as he despised the FBI. “What the hell is that? Greek, or something?”

She smiled. “Basically, we take on cases in which the evidence points to… Well, let’s just say, to things of an unusual nature. Paranormal. Occult. Things like that.”

Kane laughed. “You can’t be serious. Come on. Who are you, really? And what the hell do you want?”

Ravenwood took out her I.D. once more and handed it over to him. “You might want to take a closer look.”

He leaned forward and squinted. Sure enough, the unit to which she was assigned was, indeed, the Anomalous Phenomena Unit. He leaned back in his chair and gave a skeptical snort. “You gotta be kidding me.” He waited for her response. “You are kidding me. Right?”

“Not at all. But, if you think that’s funny, you haven’t heard anything yet.”

“Okay,” Kane said, taking a deep breath. He knew there was no getting rid of her. “Let’s hear it. What have you got?”

“Thank you.”

He squirmed in his chair. You’re not welcome.

“To begin with,” she said, “you need to accept the possibility that what we’re dealing with here may very well involve some sort of paranormal phenomena.”

“Oooh… You mean like spooks and stuff? Great angle for the press. I can see the headlines now. ‘The Boogeyman Killer Strikes Again!’”

Ravenwood dug a polished red fingernail into the palm of her tightly clenched fist and began silently counting to ten. She barely got to three when her cell phone chimed. She pulled it from her pocket. “Ravenwood. ….Now? ….Mexico? But… Okay, I’m on my way.” She stood up and looked at Kane. “I’m sorry. Something’s come up. I have to go.”

“Aw, that’s too bad. And we were having such a good time.”

She ignored the comment. “I may be out of the country for a few days. We’ll continue this when I get back.”

“I can hardly wait. Oh, and Ms. Ravenwood? Ro?”

She stopped at the door and turned. “Yes?”

“Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”