The Pillar: The Praetorius Agency Files, #2

WE’RE NEEDED, MRS. PEEL

SAN FRANCISCO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

DECEMBER 23RD.  20:30 hrs.

The cowboy checked his watch.  Rain poured out of the sky in proverbial buckets.  Few recalled a worse winter in the San Francisco Bay Area during their lifetimes.  A curse?  Just retribution for the City’s libertine past?  Or the planet gone mad.  He leaned into the madness explanation.  It suited his perspective.

Screams from jet engines ricocheted against the dense clouds and rain.  Horns honked.  Whistles blew.  Everyone was cold and had somewhere to go.  Anywhere but there.

The freezing peculiarities of the storms stacked back-to-back, rolling down from the Bering Sea, blanketed the city by the Bay in a shroud of gray unlike the usual coating of fog.  With it came the unusual, unholy trinity: lightning, thunder, and wind.

That was poetic.  He ought to write a book.

The cowboy waiting just beyond the taxi stand pulled his coat collar up to protect his neck and crossed his arms tighter around his tall body.  His chin he tucked down against the cold, leaving a well-worn Stetson to shield his head.  At his feet waited two suitcases, a hard double-stack hat box, and a waterproof-wrapped saddle.  He was the picture of turn-of-the-century misery, were it not for the fact that the building behind him was the ever-under-construction, ultra-modern airport for the City and County of San Francisco, one of three in the greater Bay Area.

Taxi’s, he concluded, must hibernate at the airport.  Clearly why one could never find them out in the wilds of downtown S.F.  Hotel mini-buses and driverless ride-share vehicles raced by, whipping up the heavy mist and spraying onto his fellow holiday travel survivors.

Emerging from the plethora of headlights, a silver SUV crept across several lanes to cozy up in front of the cowboy.  He lifted his head only enough to see out from under the brim of his hat.

A trickle of collected rainwater poured off the side of the Stetson.

The SUV’s shotgun window rolled down revealing nothing in the darkness of the interior.

The angle of the Stetson cocked to the side, spilling the water in the opposite direction.

Hey, Cowboy.  Wanna’ ride?  The vocal tone was low, smooth, sexy.

A burst of frigid air attempted to divide vehicle from human and failed.  The one side of his trim, thick mustache turned up.  Y’all got an offer for me?  His teeth nearly chattered.  It’s a might cold out here.  I’m tempted to take ya’ up on it.

Tempted?  Well, I do have this strange, new device, called a heater.  Still tempted?

The cowboy stretched to look into the SUV without moving too much.  Those heated seats, too?  His tone was hopeful.

The very latest credit can rent.

Temptin’ indeed.  An’ I should throw my hat in with y’all because?

It’s raining, they’re calling this storm an Arctic Vortex, or the ‘Storm of the Century,’ and I know — that you know — that I know — there isn’t enough money in the world to make you get into one of those driverless taxis, and ... the SUV driver paused.

And?

The driver leaned into the light reflecting through the windshield from the airport, displaying her coy smile, witty violet eyes, and a long pale red braid of hair draped over her shoulder.  Her vintage catsuit peeked out from under a simple, leather jacket.  "And, Steed, we have our first case."  She used that nickname she loved using for her partner, Jack de Sombras.  That there was a good sign, he surmised.  When they used the names of the British TV show characters, they both grew up with, they were either in for a good adventure or in terrible trouble.

Mostly likely, both.

Already? he replied, opening the back passenger door of the SUV, and flinging in his suitcases and hat box.  The office ain’t even open yet.  With much more dignity, he retrieved the saddle and gently placed it in the very back.

Tessa Wells-Lancing, his partner at the newly minted Praetorius Security Agency, held up a small notepad.  Well, while you were galivanting around Northern California, enjoying the finer cuisine noted of contemporary air travel, she allowed Jack a moment to choose between snickering or glowering, "I received a call from one Darius Trădat.  Tray-dat, she repeated the pronunciation for him while pointing to the unique, to American eyes, surname spelling that he couldn’t quite see.  An urban tattoo artist, internet dominator, and antiquities collector, asking that we investigate a series of bizarre threats he’s received.  Due to the nature of the physical danger proposed, he believes they are a result of his family’s status and not related to any of his own professional activities.  Beyond the usual death threat, the perpetrator seems to know just what curses and folk superstitions push his terror buttons.  As one expects in these circumstances, he didn’t want to say too much over the phone.  He needs to meet with us, face to face.  Now.  Even during the Holidays."

Must be serious.

Some cursory research let me know we’re not talking about the mafia but led me to suspect something much, much older and far more anchored in old world beliefs.  I wouldn’t call my quick check a Threat Assessment, it isn’t nearly detailed enough.  But it is a good start.  He has an interesting background: artistic, creative, heavily influenced by religion.  His voice was a little out-pitched, the sentences too fast —

In a word?

’In a phrase,’ he’s scared shitless for his immortal soul.

Well, the cowboy said, closing the back hatch of the SUV, and sighing loud enough to be heard over the roar of traffic sloshing through rainwater, that sounds like somethin’ we might specialize in.

Right up our alley, Jack.

Jack, by his own admission, a freshly designated professional paranormal skeptic, walked around to the driver’s side door.  Tessa rolled down her window for him.  The slighted waft of vanilla and musk floated out to him.

He leaned in to peek at her notepad.  Nodding, he said, Slide on over, as they say.  I’ll drive.  Y’all can give me all the details, like who Trădat is, what y’all’ve learned ... the basics.  Ya’ know I’m more of an audio learner anyway.

I’m not sliding over the gearshift.  And I expected you might prefer to drive, Mr. Man.

Jack placed a hand on his heart.  I admit freely that this is one of my lingering, ‘toxic masculine’ weaknesses.  He opened the door for her, noting she didn’t have a comment about that practice.  Uh, where am I driving us to?

Old Sacramento.

Oh.  I like that place, but it’s a bit of a distance.  Especially in this weather.

We’ll fill in the time.  There’s more to tell.  It seems he lost a cousin lately, in a rather vicious way.  Add to it the threats and family connections that aren’t so delightful.  Toss in a few superstitions, a little paranoia —

I get it.  A nasty salad.

Tessa gestured signaling that the command seat was his, hurried around the front of the SUV.  While he adjusted mirrors and leg room, Tessa stopped with her hand on the hood.

After a moment, when she didn’t move from her spot, Jack took notice.  Her gaze, lost off into the distance at nothing he could identify, set off his internal alarms, as if he was watching a horse in the pasture suddenly lock its stance and whip its ears in the direction of shadowy bushes.  This was the airport.  Neither bushes nor possible mountain lions or bobcats.  Yet they’d been through enough dangers in their earlier years together for him to trust her senses as much as his own.  And yet ... Tessa seemed frozen, not distressed.

If anything, he was the one now distressed.  Something was wrong with Tessa.

Tessa’s mind raced ... no ... panicked.

Wait!  I’m in a room?  Where’s the car?  The planes?  Where am I?  How did I get ...

Her body wouldn’t respond.  Immobilized!  Trapped in place of choking, binding glue that held her.  Only her eyes moved, barely allowing her to see that she was standing in a room, frozen in place, far away from the airport.  Limestone.  Something’s wrong.  Hairs stood up on her arms.

Strange, winged griffins and men with curled beards glared down at her — hungry.  And blood.  The scent of rain and exhaust had vanished, leaving in place the overwhelming scent of blood: iron rich and red.  Violence.  There would be violence.

Like in any lucid dream, her legs failed to run when she desperately needed them too.  Her mouth opened and no words came out.  She forced a scream, demanding it escape from her lungs.  No sound passed her lips —

Darlin’!  What’s wrong? cut through the suffocating vision.

Darlin’?  Jack heard the catch in his voice, damn it, but this was weird.  He swallowed hard, to make certain his next words wouldn’t sound so freaked out — he had a reputation to maintain — for her sake.  Sure, he shouldn’t worry about her so much, but after the events at the Mesa?  Weird made him unnaturally cautious.

Tessa snapped back a look in his direction, appearing to be relieved to find her limbs working again by the way she was shaking and wiggling them.  What? she asked.

Somethin’s got yer attention.  What is it?

She started to speak, he could see that.  Uh ... no, nothing.  I thought I saw something, but I was wrong.

She’s not tellin’ me.  Or ... ah hell, I’m just being too protective.  Y’all sure?

Positive.

Jack slowly set his Stetson behind him in the back seat, never taking his eyes off her as she began walking around the vehicle.  He watched as she took in a deep, eyes-closed breath.  What was going on?  Tessa didn’t space out.  Or did she?

Smiling and mock saluting, then wiggling her fingers one more time, Tessa quickly got into the SUV.

Y’all okay?  Ya’ went mental walkabout there for a minute.

Just fine.  Tessa shook it off.

Sure?  Look, we can go up tomorrow.

Her violet eyes opened wide.  Oh, no, it was just something I thought I saw.  Nothing at all.

Uh-huh.  Ya’ll know, that there is not the first time I’ve seen it happen to ya’ lately.

Oh, she said with some astonishment.  I didn’t know that.  Maybe I’m a little tired, you know, with the office set up, moving, the excitement of starting our business ...  It’s annoying.  Not sure why.

Jack set his hand on her leg, near her knee.  Fingertips.  Y’all ’re sure?

Positive.  I barely remember what it was that I saw.  But we both know it’s better to be wrong about seeing something than to ignore what might be a potential threat.

He could have quizzed her further, but then he didn’t want pry too far.  There was a line between professional and private life.  Despite wishing he could cross that line, he didn’t.  She hadn’t given him permission to do so.  And a true gentleman, an honest man, didn’t go where he wasn’t invited specifically.

Well, if she said she was fine, so be it.  If she was back on target, he would be too.  While she was removing a thick folder of papers, he couldn’t help but whistle at the size of the case file.  That much, with no Threat Assessment completed?

This mission’s a ‘might complex,’ to say the least, she teased, mocking his Texas drawl in a friendly manner.

Just as long as there aren’t any of those items I specifically cited in my contract.  Vampires?  UFOs?  That sort of nonsense.  Would she think he was teasing or serious?

So far, no.

He gave her his famous Eyebrow of Doom, he’d been practicing.  Just for her.

"I don’t always learn everything in advance, Steed."  Oh good, she was back to nicknames and wittiness.

I’m shocked.  Shocked, I tell ya’.

But to the best of my knowledge, so far, nothing violates your strident sensibilities nor your contract.

An’ y’all still have a case file that big?

Tessa nodded.

He could use their comfort nicknames too.  "Well, Mrs. Peel.  Seems we are needed."

Chapter Two

Museum of Oriental Art

Golden Gate Park, San Francisco

GLAZED EYES STARED back in his flashlight’s reflection and the first thought across Kekoa’s mind was, "you don’t see that every day."  Headless corpses — rarely, true, were known to be found at crime scenes.  Corpse-less heads?  Displayed ritualistically?  Not so much.

Ya’ don’t see that every day.

Lt. Maka’ala Mack Kekoa of the SFPD had been around long enough for the sarcastic phrase to be branded on his frontal lobe.  This case was a first, not just for him, but for most in the room.  From the grizzled old Sergeant continually holding his mouth so as not to retch his lunch all over the crime scene, to the rookie’s shell-shocked eyes that said he would never un-see this, to Mack’s own insides trying to batter their way up out of his esophagus, Kekoa could never again say he’d seen worse without making comparisons to this.

This crime scene, he decided, would always be the worst.  Even the earlier, nearly-duplicate scene wasn’t quite this bad.  No.  It was.  Both of these crime scenes would always be the worst.

Below the whitened eyes, the mouth hung slack.  Sinew dangled down from the underside of the mandible, no longer protected by skin or muscle.  The bodiless head had been fixed to a limestone pillar with a large construction nail through a portion of the scalp.  Where a body should have been below it, only a pair of bound hands dangled off another nail.  Blood appeared to have been splashed in a ritualized manner, all over the limestone pillar and tablets nearby.  Red still glistened under all the forensic search lights.

A phone call dragged him out of his warm, dry house and ordered him up the tall steps to the museum through the growing crowd of cameras and newscasters outside, all speculating on what he was going to encounter.

Once inside, Kekoa was shocked to find they weren’t close with their warnings — not by a mile.  Happily, he wasn’t going to be the one to brief them.

He slipped plastic booties over his shoes and snapped on latex gloves.  Yeah, the MO was the same, but this was ... horrible.

The masterfully reconstructed Mesopotamian exhibit consisted of genuine stone reliefs, tiles, sculptures, tablets, and ceiling-tall pillars from the ruins found near ancient Ur, a powerful city-state in what was now southern Iraq.  Or so the sign near the front of the room said.

He had been warned the museum display had been vandalized by the killer or killers.  What an understatement.

The night security guard ranted hysterically about the antiquities being invaluable — irreplaceable — and how he hadn’t heard anything at all.  He tried to tell them about the ancient Assyrians before he had to flee the room for fear of fouling up the crime scene.

Kekoa was sympathetic to the guard.  Why would anyone do this?

A crash of metal drew panicked looks and hands to holsters.  Flashlights swept back and forth until someone shouted it was one news van backing into another outside.  Chaos had arrived.  Slowly, the teams went back to their tasks.

Based on the ripping and tearing of the neck, it was clear to Mack that the body had been disassembled fast and with blunt instruments.  Ouch.  Was the victim alive when decapitation had occurred?  Were there the signs of struggle?  He backed away, checking for answers, or any clues, that might make sense of this, even though he stood in a room full of experts asking the same questions.

Finding the rest of the body would be nice.  Without having to spend a few days searching as they had with the last displayed body.

The carpet squished like a mud puddle under Mack’s foot.  A uniformed officer looked over at him, down at the source of the disgusting sound, and back up to Kekoa’s eyes.

Stop! one of the CSI forensic team shouted while another grumbled about cops being the most ruinous thing to a crime scene.  Boss wants us to vacuum up the carpet.  Leave the covers on your way out.  It’ll all get turned in together.

Kekoa looked appropriately apologetic and lifted his plastic-bootie-covered foot off the carpet, eliciting a sucking sound.  The sound and the smell of dust and human decay didn’t mix well.

Do we know ... excuse me, Kekoa said, clearing his throat and redirecting his attention to the uniformed officer he knew from several cases, do we know who he is ... yet?

She flipped back the pages on her notebook.  Sebastian.  Coleridge.  22751 Atchison, Tiburon.  Did you catch that last name, sir?

Another Coleridge?  Related?

Yes, sir.  The first victim’s brother and business partner.  I made a quick search online.

Kekoa thought for a second, then said, Alexander Coleridge was a resident of Tiburon too.  He began flipping through his own notebook for backup to his memory.

This guy’s got cash to afford that address.

Had, Kekoa noted dryly.  How’d you ID the victim and get that much info so fast?  Hopping awkwardly, he allowed a technician to remove the bootie from his raised foot, repeating the procedure for the other foot.  The officer waited patiently for him to finish.  Sorry about that Sal.  The guy’s ID?

I’d love to say TV-show-fast fingerprint scanning and my superior detecting skills, Sal pointed at the dismembered hands with her pen, though neither of them chose to look too closely, but we actually found the rest of him dumped over in the closet.  Get this: he still had a wallet on him.

The body was nearby?  Just dumped?

Yup.

We got lucky this time?  Or maybe we are supposed to know who he is.  You said, with his wallet still on him?

State ID rather than a driver’s license — guess he didn’t drive.  Club cards, memberships, including a membership to this museum.  And cash.  Mack, he had a lot of it on him.

So, not a robbery.  If body and ID were left like that, we were either supposed to find out who he is, or the killer didn’t care if we did.  That sounds like we’re being left a message.

A more obvious one this time than the note left with Alexander Coleridge’s remains?

That’s what I’m thinking.  Was there a note with this victim’s head and hands?

Written in cypher?  Yes.

Great, Kekoa grumbled.  Now we just need to figure out who the message is for and what the message is?  He let the question linger in the air, allowing himself and anyone else listening to consider it.

Who the message is for?  Is it even a message beyond ‘I like to kill people?  Come and catch me?’

Kekoa gestured in the direction of the stone pillar.  If they, or he, simply wanted either man dead, he would be dead and maybe we’d find him dumped out at Ocean Beach eventually.  This ...

... it’s elaborate.  Staged.  They threw blood all over it, Sal added with reasonable incredulity.

Bingo.  This isn’t about some random killing.

And this is now a repeated MO.

Maybe.  The body of Alexander Coleridge was found a couple of days after they found ... his remains.  But yeah.  This likely makes number two.  Let’s pray it isn’t a copycat.

Not enough information went out to the media for some random copycat killer.

Kekoa let a sharp breath out.  There’s some good news.

The technician leaned over Kekoa’s shoulder.  We’ll add these to our collection, he held up the evidence bag with Kekoa’s booties, and check if that’s the victim’s blood or someone else’s in the carpet and all over the display.

That’s a lotta blood.  Was the body drained?

Some, Sal replied.  But not in buckets.  She waved with her pencil.  This ... took, for lack of a better term, buckets.  I don’t know if its human.

The technician shrugged.  It’s hemoglobin.  It’s wet.  It’s red.  That’s all I can say right now with any certainty.

The Lieutenant tensed his muscles, holding down a shiver.  Ten bucks says its pig or cow’s blood to make up the difference, but we need to be sure.  Thanks.  He rubbed the back of his neck, sympathetic to the victim’s plight.

Sal stepped closer and lowered her voice.  Satanic ritual?

Kekoa shook his head.  "No.  I don’t see any symbols we think of as ‘Satanic.’  Too messy.  Too obvious.  And 100% of the time, Satanic Ritual Killings are people pretending to be Satanists doing something they saw in a movie.  No.  This is something else."

Thing is, Mack, I don’t think the victim was supposed to be here.  After blushing from Kekoa’s oh yeah glare, Sal continued.  He had a hospital bracelet tucked into his wallet.  Dated yesterday from a check in.  The officer looked away from her notes, the Lieutenant, and the disconnected remains.

You’re following up with the hospital?  Dumb question.

Already made the first call.  She closed her notebook.  And yes, it was a dumb question.

A good cop knows what his or her Lieutenant is thinking, Kekoa noted, uncomfortably.  Oh hey, you said there was a cryptic note, like the last one.  Assuming this is a serial killing we’ll need to have it compared to —

Yes, sir.  It looks just like the first note.  She signaled to one of the CSI then handed Kekoa another sealed evidence bag made of thick, clear plastic.

Kekoa held it up.  What business were these two brothers in?

Import of art.  I’ll get you more detailed information.

No doubt about it: this was a repeat killing.  Two men, brothers, business partners.  And left at each scene?  A sheet of fibrous paper, like papyrus, 8 inches by 8 inches, hand printed.  Narrow, triangular marks in odd patterns, lined up in rows.  Looked like the same markings all over the tablets on display.

Sarge, have you interviewed the on-site staff yet? Kekoa called over to his senior man.

We’re just starting.

Good.  I’m curious to know why Mr. Coleridge ended up here, as opposed to anywhere else, whether by choice or by his killer’s urging.  Is he a significant museum patron, donor, on the board ...  He allowed himself one last look at the bluish skin and fogged eyes.  Christ — who the hell does this?  What is the killer saying?  What’s the message with this guy and his brother?

At least this time we have an ID right away, Sal offered.

But no one’s figured out the cypher?

We’re waiting for the museum to decode it.  It’s old Mesopotamian.  Assyrian.  Part of a known text but a mistranslation which is why they are having so much trouble with it.  That’s all we know.

Please tell me the expert wasn’t this guy.

Knowing Sal, the woman probably wanted to laugh at the potential irony, and normally would have.  Bleak humor was the best weapon a cop could have.  Thankfully, sir, no.  With this incident, I agree that an MO is forming.  Hands and heads.  Left for us?  Or maybe ...

Maybe what?

Her face tightened.  Maybe given to us?  Like, trophies we’re supposed to keep?

That was it.  Kekoa’s stomach flipped, and he swallowed hard.  Too hard.  Burning, abrased skin inside his throat stung for a moment.  Sharp camera clicking and flashing lights from the CSI team gave him waves of vertigo.  He nodded to Sal, complimented her work, handed back the evidence bag, and headed out into the corridor before he gave away how much this was getting under his skin.

This makes two.  Two brothers.  Same business.

Beyond the traumatized security guard, the curator’s assistant, and a phalanx of police professionals scouring the place, the Museum of Oriental Art was empty of human beings.  Proper procedure insured that before any investigator entered the two-story structure, the SFPD had cleared the building to make certain monsters, and serial killers had not stayed around.  That could prove unfortunate if not done.  He’d been on scenes when it had been very unfortunate indeed.

He wanted to sit.  To clear his head.  To get his shit together.  To write down his observations since lawyers and judges didn’t like to use photographic memory as evidence.

While the galleries were carpeted or furnished, the connecting hallways were clean, with polished stone and limited décor.

And cold.  Damn cold.

Didn’t help the Bay Area was going through a nasty, wet spell.  Frigid storms and hail.  Something about a cyclonic, atmospheric bomb raging down from Canada or somewhere up there.

Lt. Kekoa sat down on a cement bench, decorated with Egyptian-like images which appeared cartoonish compared to those in a gallery filled with the real thing.  Black granite statues with the faces of animals glared out at him.

Maybe the Gods were angry with them?  Weren’t the Gods always angry with someone?  Maybe the killer was some demon sent from Hell?

A gruesome crocodile god stared over a horrific set of teeth at the lieutenant.

Or maybe somebody wants to freak out cops and citizens alike?

The crocodile only grimaced.

Teeth.

Chapter Three

Old Sacramento State Park

California

A VAMPIRE?  That sonofabitch thinks he’s a vampire.

Well, Little Vlad screwed up, big time.

Two unforgivable sins soiled the creep’s hands: he’d killed — make that slaughtered — the Agency’s newest client, and worst of all, he’d injured Tessa.  The first of those sins, Jack could deal with, calmly and reasonably.  He’d seen plenty of gruesome carnage in his time.  Based on what he witnessed, it would take an extraordinary mortician to make the victim ready for a funeral.  A cast-iron stomach and stone-cold gag-reflex was essential to his old job.  Now, it appeared his new occupation required the same skillset.

We just got here, too.

But in harming Tessa?  His partner?  His chest tightened and his thoughts raced through every worry he had about her.  And he had plenty.  The essence of calm left his logic in the dust.

She told you she’s okay, he attempted to reason.  She always says she’s okay even when she isn’t, damn it!

He reluctantly left her, slouched against a wall and waving him to go on.  Alive.  He had to trust her and he had to catch that sonofabitch.  Fueled on her assurance alone, Jack, raced out of the tattoo parlor on Second Street, into the empty waterfront town, determined to catch the ... the ...

Vampire?

Admitting such a creature could exist made his face burn.  The two fictional characters they pilfered their nicknames from would never believe in such things.  Steed and Peel were all for confronting the absurd, if for no other reason than to debunk it.

Yeah, Vampires and Zombies.  I named those two specifically in my contract, didn’t I?  Right next to Aliens, as unacceptable clients, suspects, or persons of interest?  Sweet baby Jesus — man’s got to keep his dignity.

Ah hell, she didn’t know how this was going to turn out.  This was only