“Is Doctor Shepherd available?” I asked bleached-blond Nurse Pelagris.
“One moment, Officer,” she said. “Actually, yes. He’s just finished a consultation and doesn’t have any procedures until this evening. You remember the way to his office?”
I nodded and found my way to Doc Shepherd. He welcomed me into his office with a broad smile and a glint in his pale blue eyes. Nothing about his expression said he was surprised to see me.
“Officer Spector,” he said, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. We both sat, and he asked, “So, any progress on the case? Were you able to track down the blades? Cain’s Daggers that were bought or sold in the past ten years?”
“I haven’t had a chance,” I replied. “Things have…things have escalated.”
“Oh?”
“It’s why I’ve come back.” I told Doc Shepherd about the recent murder. As I explained the details, I watched the color drain out of his face and then return a few minutes later, darkening to angry red.
When I had finished, Doc asked, “So the ME believes the young woman bled out, but not necessarily from the throat?”
I nodded.
“Are you certain this was one of the women in the pictures?” he asked.
“Positive. Why?”
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” he said, “but none of the other victims had vaginal trauma.”
“No,” I replied. “Not that we’re aware of.”
“That’s a very puzzling thing for you to say, Officer Spector,” Doc said. “You mentioned several previous victims…I’m assuming they were all thoroughly examined.”
Things were about to get dicey. “Doc Shepherd, can I count on your discretion in this matter?”
“Of course.”
“Have you ever heard of the Smiling Jack Murders?” I asked.
It wasn’t so much that his expression changed but it was as if the skin on his face tightened instantaneously. He didn’t answer my question. “Go on,” was all he said.
“Until now,” I said, “there haven’t been any bodies left behind. Only pictures.”
“Uh, huh,” he said, twirling his mustache in a most dispirited fashion.
“The latest victim is indeed one of the young women from the Smiling Jack photographs,” I said. “It’s the first physical evidence we’ve had to go on.”
“We?” Doc Shepherd asked.
I hadn’t realized I’d used that particular pronoun. “The FBI,” I said.
“I thought the FBI dropped the Smiling Jack case,” he said. “In their professional assessment, it was a hoax.”
“It wasn’t a hoax,” I said. “They just weren’t smart enough to find the clues they needed.”
“They?” Doc Shepherd asked.
Speaking of not smart enough. I wanted to hit myself, preferably with something large and blunt. “The FBI,” I replied.
Doc Shepherd folded his hands on his desk. “You know, Mr. Spector,” he said, “I find myself wondering a great deal about you and your involvement in all this. When I met you, I thought everything about you spoke of professional law enforcement. But now, I’m thinking that was because Carol told me a cop was coming up to see me. But now, I hear you say we, implying you’re part of the FBI, and then they, implying that you are not. You aren’t actually with the FBI, are you?”
“No,” I replied, feeling ridiculous.
“You never did correct me when I called you officer,” he said. “FBI would go with agent, I believe. Still, now I’m wondering if you are even with the police. Well, are you?”
“No,” I said, “I am not.”
“Mr. Spector,” he said, his voice taking on an edge I had not heard before. “I’ll accept that I made all the assumptions here, that I alone am at fault for being wrong about you. But you allowed me to carry on with those assumptions. You accepted my help under false pretenses, no matter whose fault those pretenses were. In my book, that’s a violation of trust.”
Guilty as charged. He had me dead-to-rights, but he did not understand the whole picture. I don’t know how he could. “Doctor Shepherd,” I said, “Trust is a precious commodity in this world and, for what it’s worth, I never intended to mislead you. However, I did allow you to believe those things about me because…well, because the truth would be harder to believe.”
He blinked, and I could tell that, behind that blue-eyed gaze, tens of thousands of possibilities were racing in the circuitry of his mind. “Try me,” he said.
I took a deep breath. I’d been through this before. How much could I reveal? How would he react? What greater damage could occur? I made up my mind, and I was about to give him some information when his desk phone rang.
He took up the receiver. “Shepherd,” he said. He listened intently for a few moments and then, his voice suddenly full of command, he said, “Tell Nurse Cathy to get down to the blood bank. Uh, huh, right…all the A-positive we can get. I want the bypass ready and waiting when I arrive. And get someone to the freezer to wait. If I can’t create something internally, I’m going to need something PDQ.” He hung up the phone and stood.
“Emergency?” I asked.
“I’m afraid I need to cut this conversation short,” Doc Shepherd said. “A man is dying upstairs, and I’m on the clock.”
I stood up and started to speak, but he held up a hand.
“Don’t say anything more,” Doc Shepherd said. “Not now. We’re both in a hurry, and liable to make mistakes. But, Mr. Spector, if you want any additional assistance from me, you’ll need to level with me. And God help you if your involvement in the murders of these young women is anything but noble.” The threat lingered in the air even after Doc Shepherd left the office.
I’d learned nothing more to help me, and I may have sealed off a very important source of information. All in all, not a stellar effort.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
When I passed through the hospital’s sliding exit doors, it felt like leaving an airlock for another planet. The heat seemed to boil up from the pavement and broil down from above. The heat must have triggered a hallucination because I suddenly heard a bouncy tune full of violins, bells, harps, and flutes—a tune that couldn’t possibly have clashed with my mood any worse than it did.
I am sixteen going on seventeen
I know that I’m naive.
Fellows I meet may tell me I’m sweet…
“No,” I muttered. As I fumbled in my coat pocket for the cell, I finally realized I’d been had.
I am sixteen going on seventeen, innocent as a rose…
An older married couple walked by just then, whispering and snickering merrily as I came up empty in the two outer pockets.
I need someone older and wiser,
Telling me what to do…
Finally, I snagged the phone out of the left hand inner pocket. I smashed down the green button and growled, “Liesl’s song from The Sound of Music…really, Rez?”
I thought I’d have to endure peals of triumphant laughter, but when Rez spoke, her voice was uncharacteristically stiff…robotic and tersely professional. “Mr. Spector, I’m calling you on behalf of FBI Deputy Director Barnes.”
“What can I do for you, Agent Rezvani?” I replied, playing along—though I had no idea what game we were playing.
“Mr. Spector, I am calling to inform you that the case, hitherto known as Smiling Jack, is exclusively the domain of the FBI.”
Hitherto? Who talks like that?
“And so, Mr. Spector, you are advised to cease and desist all activities that may relate to the case.” There was a pause, and I heard a gruff male voice say something unintelligible in the background. “In fact, Mr. Spector,” Rez went on, “if you involve yourself in the Smiling Jack investigation—in any way—you will be arrested and charged with felony interference in a federal case.”
“Felony interference?” I echoed. “Are you sure there is such a thing?”
“I hope you understand the gravity of the situation,
Mr. Spector,” Rez said, her voice sounding pained and raw. “Lives are at stake.”
“I understand completely,” I said, wondering how much of this she really expected me to honor. And how much of this would she honor?
“From this point on, Mr. Spector,” she said, “we will have no further contact. Violations of any kind will result in my dismissal from the FBI and your incarceration. Please reply to indicate that you have understood this official warning.”
I had to fight down a bile-filled wave of rage. I’m not sure I succeeded entirely. “Let the record show,” I said through clenched teeth, “I have been so informed.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Spector.” She hung up. Just like that.
Chapter 21
I drove the hitman’s car away from the hospital and didn’t care if I still had a tail. If the FBI wanted to play cat and mouse with me, fine. They’d figure out in short order which one of us was the cat. And this cat was in one serious bad mood.
In the past six hours, the biggest lead in the Smiling Jack case had been laid out in front of me…and then snatched away. The FBI had cut me off. Doc Shepherd had cut me off. And, in spite of her previous pledge, Agent Rezvani had cut me off too. Of course, it was my fault for trying to collaborate, but that was not the predominating thought in my mind at this moment.
I thought sure Rez would have called me back, maybe when she got out from under the blazing glare of the Deputy Director. But I’d driven around for an hour without even so much as an “I am sixteen, going on seventeen,” warbling out of the phone.
So I already had a chip the size of a garbage truck on my shoulder when I happened to drive by a billboard sign. “Great Progress Clinic for Women,” it read. “Where a Woman’s Choice is Held Sacred.” There was a phone number and the exit listed as well.
I should have known better. I should have looked away and driven on. After all, I needed a new base of operations for Internet research. Like I said, I should have known better.
But, after spending the afternoon wallowing in disgust over my lack of progress and all the dead ends, I found myself taking the exit for the clinic. I parked on a side street about a hundred yards away from the front doors. Great Progress Clinic for Women looked like a giant spider built from steel, glass, and stone. Its hub was a blocky, two-story structure capped with a bluish dome, and its appendage-like wings sprawled out all around it.
I told myself I was there to think about the facts of the Smiling Jack case. The murder weapon was, after all, a turn of the century abortion instrument. Smiling Jack chose the weapon because he has a message to send, and maybe if I spent some time at an abortion clinic, a new angle might present itself.
But that was just psychological slight-of-hand.
The truth was, I had come to the clinic because I was angry. The rage had been building for days now, and I needed an outlet soon, or bad things would happen. So I’d come to the clinic to turn it loose.
I had a clear line of sight to the clinic’s front doors. I willed the Netherview to begin. The road vanished. The sidewalk, the trees and shrubs, the mailbox, and the street signs—all dematerialized in moments, becoming a sunless twilight full of phosphorescent elements. And I saw pretty much what I expected to see hidden in the nether at an abortion clinic.
A formidable, gothic-styled iron fence surrounded the property. The Shades had claimed it as a stronghold, and it would remain theirs until taken by force. Beyond the gate, a few agonizingly twisted, leafless trees stood guard like sentries in front of a faintly luminous structure. This stronghold was a castle in theory, but there was nothing at all romantic about this place. The towers leaned. The parapets were angled and framed by jagged merlons and gouged crenels. The gatehouse was misshapen, and the portcullis looked as if it had been made to tear flesh. It was an utterly ugly structure, but it was home to my quarry.
Shades, and lots of them. Roamers, nesters, prowlers, haunts, and thorns meandered across the property and were more heavily clustered at the stronghold. I didn’t see any Knightshades, but I expected them to be inside. Unwilling to reveal my presence for too long, I snapped off the Netherview. The clinic and its property reappeared.
I’d never attempted to storm a stronghold this well-fortified, but today, I just didn’t care.
I’d called ahead: the clinic closed up at 5:00. It was quarter till. I probably should have come right after closing, to save myself the wait…and avoid the thoughts I’d have to deal with. I drummed my fingers on my silver case and watched the clinic. The moments ticked by like molasses.
Smiling Jack had used a turn-of-the-century abortion instrument to kill his victims.
The message seemed clear enough: Abortion is murder. Was that it? I cringed inwardly. I’d been given this mission specifically, but I didn’t want it to turn out the way it seemed to be heading. Could it be as simple as a deranged Pro-Life activist going to severe lengths to show the reality of abortion?
While the news media took every chance it got to make all Pro-Lifers seem like violent, fringe psychopaths, I knew better. But there were a few. And that was a few too many. Those who assaulted abortion docs or shot up clinic windows were doing nothing to help a very just cause. And the worst of these were the ones who committed crimes and claimed to do so in the name of God.
I glanced up at the clinic and shook my head. Trouble was, I completely understood the motive. Children had been slain in places like this…by the millions. It was a holocaust that no one had the courage to recognize and stop. All the terrible dangers of the world: disease, sickness, famine, weather, etc.—things that could take the lives of the very young—and yet, mankind had the despicable temerity to murder its own. And then call it a right.
My blood was already boiling at six minutes to closing, when the clinic doors opened. I sat up a little straighter. A male nurse with very hairy forearms came out, slowly pushing a woman in a wheelchair. I couldn’t tell how old the woman was. She had her head buried in her hands, and her hair made a curtain around her face. Her head bobbed slowly, and I felt my heart breaking. It was clear what she’d been through. And I knew what she’d have to face in the time to come.
The male nurse had wheeled her about half way down the front walk when a brown SUV left the clinic parking lot, pulled into the circle, and parked at the curb. A big man got out of the vehicle. He was barrel-chested, dressed in a too-tight black t-shirt and military-styled camouflage pants. His hair was a disheveled, rooster feather mess, and a trail of gray cigarette smoke followed him to the curb. He stood there, glaring at the approaching woman. And, I could scarcely believe it, but the man was actually tapping his foot.
I wanted to go over there and leave a four-knuckle tattoo on the guy’s jaw, but that kind of thing was mostly outside the purview of my mission. I pushed down the rage, reminded myself that I had bigger fish to fry, and did my level best to be patient. In a few minutes, the clinic would be closed. A few minutes after that, the doctors, nurses, and assistants would clear out, and then, I could go in.
The woman in the wheelchair screamed.
I snapped to attention, thinking maybe the cammo-jerk had smacked her, but she was still twenty yards away from him. She seemed frantic, shaking her head and swinging one hand around. That’s when I willed my Netherview once more.
The scene changed, and I knew instantly what had the woman so distraught. Shades surrounded her. Two roamers and a half a dozen thorns whirled about the woman. They darted in and out slashing at her with their talons and claws. These were not physical wounds, I knew. They were spiritual…many times more dangerous than damage to the flesh. The Shades were taunting the woman relentlessly. They were tormenting her.
That was more than I could take.
I opened my silver case. I withdrew my three favorite tools: the PNP, the Edge, and the Cat. I locked the case in the car, put the Edge and the Cat in my two deepest pockets, and tucked the PNP into my waistband where it would be hidden by my coat.
I strode towards the
woman, and I can only imagine what I must have looked like to them. Big guy, bulging pockets, mad at the world, stomping up the sidewalk. But I couldn’t be deterred by anything. I was taking a big risk in more ways than I could count. I had to be purposeful.
And absolutely lethal.
I switched back and forth between Netherview and Earthveil as I approached. The Shades so far were too busy making sport of the woman to notice my approach. They would notice soon enough.
The male nurse looked up first. “Excuse me, sir, can I help you?”
I thought fast. “John Spector, United Health Services,” I said, holding out my badge and shiny shield. “I’m sorry I’m a little late for the observation.” I flicked on Netherview. The Shades were tangled in the woman’s hair. They were biting and scratching.
“Could I see that badge, sir?” Back to Earthveil.
“Of course,” I replied, handing him the badge. The second he took the badge and his eyes left me, I flipped to Netherview and found myself glaring at a gaping roamer that was half entangled in the woman’s hair. Its face was human…if you took a human’s face and yanked strategic features with a pair of industrial strength pliers. I pulled the PNP from my waist band and let the big nasty roamer have it right in the kisser.
I pulled the PNP trigger, and in Earthveil, in strong daylight, all anyone would’ve seen is a little wavering shimmer in the air, and all they might’ve heard is a kind of a muted click. In Netherview, there was a flash of green light and a thunderous roar. The PNP launched a disc filled with particle nether, a pulsing, lugubrious substance. It was an incomplete recreation of the fabric of the spiritual world, but because it was incomplete, it would instantly consume anything spiritual that it contacted.
The roamer’s face melted like the Wicked Witch of the West at her baptism. Its headless carcass fell away, and its essence—an oddly beautiful mist of sparkling crimson and deep purple—began to whirl in a vortex, being drawn inexorably back to the Abyss. Another roamer leaped at me. It took a PNP round in the groin. I didn’t watch how much of the creature disintegrated. All I know is, once the pieces started flying, I switched back to Earthveil.