Chasing the Red Queen Read online

  That sonofabitch?

  She spun, headed down the beach clinging to her beach bag.

  Debbie fell in beside her. “You wanta leave—I mean, you’re shaking, I can see it and if you do—well, I’m like okay with it, really, I am,” she rambled. “It’s our last night together and I’m totally good if you—”

  “No!” Donja interrupted. “I’m not gonna let that two-timing jerk ruin my going away party. Screw him!”

  “Well I think that’s why he’s with Brandy.”

  Donja glanced sideways with a scowl.

  “The screw part,” Debbie exclaimed with wide eyes. “That’s what I meant. She’ll hump anything.”

  “Pa…lease,” Donja groaned. “That’s one visual I could live without.”

  “Sorry,” Debbie said as they maneuvered through a multitude of beach goers. Donja dodged a beach ball and then turned her head just in the nick of time as two young boys engaged in a sand fight all but peppered her face. Just past three girls who were burying some guy in heaps of sand, they found the rest of their group, St. Joseph high schoolers who had been friends forever. Donja swallowed hard, people were waving and despite her anxiety, she felt pretty good about it all. That is until she saw Kevin hanging all over Brandy Smith.

  She turned away, her gut churning. She felt lightheaded and weak in the knees.

  How could he do this to me?

  She pulled the bottle of whiskey from the beach bag, unscrewed it, turned it up and guzzled. She coughed harshly, Jim Beam burning all the way to her stomach. She turned and though she knew damn well that she shouldn’t, she cast a look at Kevin. He glanced back with a smile that would charm bees. Time stood still and then, as if he had never professed his love, or held her tight with sweet kisses, he turned his attention back to Brandy.

  Donja averted her gaze, a thousand daggers to the heart.

  This can’t be happening.

  She closed her eyes remembering the first time she saw him. It was fifth grade and she thought he was about the most handsome guy on earth. Her crush lingered though no one knew, not even Debbie, but then in their eighth-grade chemistry class they ended up paired on a microscope. The way his eyes fell upon her and the touch of his hand as he helped her with the microscope had her swooning. He asked her to a football game and she all but fainted. She was nothing, ridiculed and talked about like dirt because she was goth and he was tall and athletic, quarterback of their home team. He had a way about him and integrity to boot, or at least she thought so until she broke the news that she was moving. That’s when he began pressuring her for sex. On two occasions she had almost let him go the whole way. Now, seeing him with Brandy, better known as “Hot Lips Smith”, she wondered if maybe she should have given in to his needs.

  “I made you a drink, party girl,” Mickey Dye, head geek and smartest guy in their class said, drawing her from reverie.

  “Thanks, Mickey, you’re a true gentleman,” Donja said with a forced smile.

  Someone turned on some music and Donja could instantly feel the vibrations from the bass. She raised the drink to her lips and sipped, tasting the rum. She saw Debbie and Gina, giggling with Theresa and Marilyn near the crashing waves and it bothered her, not that they were getting tight, but because she hated that they would have each other and she would have no one.

  I can just see it now, a new school. A goth freak thrown to the sharks.

  “Whew!” she sipped her drink, fighting one emotion after another. She listened to the laughter and then a stealthy glance to the shoreline revealed Kevin and Brandy, knee deep in the crashing waves. Kevin peeled his shirt over his head and it took all her willpower not to go to him, beg, plead, give him what he wanted. She bit at her lip, eyes locked as Brandy raised her T-shirt to reveal a skimpy bikini scarcely covering her full breast. A wave of heat rose from her chest, scorching her in misery. She debated her next move, but before she could think, Kevin slid his hands to Brandy’s waist then cupped her hips, pulling her tight. Donja’s gut clenched and try as she may, she couldn’t pull her eyes away and then, Brandy slid her hands up his chiseled chest to his neck and tangled them in his hair. Kevin kissed her, and as their union intensified, he made love to her with his tongue, practically deep-throating her, his hands all over her.

  Impaled, Donja ripped her wounded eyes off their blatant display, turned and fled in a blaze of devastating betrayal. Her heart pounded, tears threatening release. Finding her beach bag, she fumbled nervously for a cigarette, lit it and took a long drag. Suddenly from the side, she felt someone grip her arm and she nearly jumped out of her skin. “He’s just trying to make you jealous so that you’ll give it up,” Debbie whispered. “She’s got a face like a bulldog.”

  “And a body most girls would die for,” Donja retorted.

  “And that’s why he’s with her, she puts out and you won’t so he’s trying to hurt you, force you to give in.”

  Donja rolled her eyes, her throat so tight she couldn’t swallow. “You think?”

  “For sure.”

  “Too bad,” Donja, scoffed, fury masking her pain. She squeezed her eyes tight. A tear streaked her cheek. She took a long drag on the cigarette and then her eyes narrowed. “It’s not gonna work, I won’t do it, I mean I want to, I want him, but damn this really hurts. I can’t believe that after all we’ve been to each other that he would just throw it away, for what? Sex!”

  “That’s it, he thinks he’s got you and that you’ll give in. He knows you love him.”

  “Love him,” Donja scowled, her chest so tight it pained her. “I’m not so sure of that anymore and even if I did, I couldn’t touch him right now, I’d claw his damn eyes out.” She took a drag, smoke circling her head. “You know, on second thought, he deserves her,” she lied, hoping Debbie bought it. “And I’m afraid for dear Kevin, I’ll go down in history as the piece of ass that got away.”

  Debbie slapped her back with a throaty laugh. “You go, girl!”

  “Woohoo!” Someone in the group hollered as several couples began to dance in the sand. Donja turned up her drink and quaffed it down. She took a drag on the ciggy, then snubbed it in the sand. Excitement spread, laughter contagious and as she watched, sipping her rum with the party seamlessly unfolding, she felt completely lightheaded, whiskey and rum dulling the malignant heartbeat which occupied her temples. Amy passed a joint and Donja took a toke fighting her tears. She passed it to Becky, then Rachel and Bernice, the sound of waves crashing in her head. Rick, a guy she had never really noticed for he was a bit of a loner, grabbed her hand and pulled into the dancers. She heard him laughing and looked at him…really looked at him. Not bad, in need of a haircut, but a nice smile. She closed her eyes and tried desperately to get into the music.

  “Hell yeah!” Debbie screeched as she and her heartthrob Gary, joined in the fun.

  Four drinks later, with time a blur, Donja looked for Rick but he was dancing with Lena. Her hopes of using him to make Kevin jealous faded. She slumped down in the sand surrounded by friends. She eyed them, moonlight illuminating every face. She listened to the laughter and jokes, camaraderie at its best. With heavy lids, she glanced to Gina and Teri giggling with Debbie who was all but wasted, snug in Gary’s arms. Something chilled her soul and it hit her like a ton of bricks. This is it—the big finale. She closed her eyes, waves crashing, sand between her toes.

  It’s all over, it’s really happening.

  She glanced to the lake, moonlight shimmering on rolling waves and on the horizon, the lights of Chicago were barely visible. She exhaled and in that moment, it hit her that Kevin and Brandy were gone.

  That bastard. Two years of commitment, down the drain.

  Her tears fell, her tough facade supported by weed and booze crumbling.

  Oh Kevin. How could I have been so wrong about you?

  She closed her eyes.

  My life’s over.

  Clues

  Within the sprawling metropolis of Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, a black Dodg
e Charger with a red flashing light navigated an endless sea of traffic. Taking a sharp right off Huron Street, the shiny vehicle came to a halt beside six blue and white police vehicles. Simultaneously, the front doors of the Charger swung wide, like the wings of a raptor into cacophony of car horns, engines and sidewalk chatter. From the driver side, black boots beneath faded jeans swung to the pavement. A man emerged, tall with an athletic build. He moved quickly past a mob of citizens held back by officers as his side kick, a blond haired, blue eyed forensic detective, one of the best in the north, fell in behind. He lifted the yellow police tape cording off an alleyway that separated two three-story brick buildings. Sunlight cast rivets of light off his sunshades as he raised a Sault Ste. Marie police I.D. badge. “Torin Mancini,” he said as he passed by the officers who motioned him on, but stopped his companion.

  “He’s with me,” Torin said smoothing his short-cropped beard. He flashed his eyes to the blond Frenchman. “Where’s your badge, Gage?”

  “I must have left it in my car,” he said with a thick French accent.

  Torin huffed. “He’s forensic, Gage LeBlanc.”

  The officer nodded, then motioned them on. Gage fell in beside Torin and in companionable silence, they set a lengthy stride down the alleyway to a large steel blue dumpster where a group of uniformed officers stood waiting.

  Torin held up his plastic I.D. “Mancini, from the Canadian Soo,” he said as he tugged at his tight jeans then knelt beside a body covered by a white drape. He took off his shades and tucked them in his shirt pocket, his boots inches from congealed blood clearly visible beneath the drape.

  “What do we have here?” he asked.

  A uniformed officer, perhaps three hundred pounds, partially balding with bloodshot eyes squatted beside him. “Are you one of the detectives who examined the body discovered in the alley the day before yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about the one on the south side of International Bridge last week?”

  “No, that was Jon Moyle,” Torin said, averting his gaze back to the draped corpse. “But I was briefed, and I read Jon’s report.”

  “Well, it appears to be the same perpetrator, same M.O., female, beaten and raped with her throat slit.”

  “Do we have I.D.?”

  “Yes, we found her purse just beyond the dumpster. Her name’s Jennifer Lightfoot, twenty, college student, from the Michigan Soo.”

  “Robbery?”

  “Nope, credit cards and cash in the purse,” he heaved. “He just wanted her body,” he sighed, “and her blood.”

  “Blood?” Torin retorted.

  “Well, yes,” the officer nodded. “You said yourself you read the reports. The coroner stated that the other victims were missing over half their blood. I looked at this one good and for a Chippewa, she’s awful pale. She must have lost it all.”

  “She’s Chippewa?”

  “Yep.”

  “How would you know that she’s Chippewa” Torin asked, his eyes cutting into the officer.

  “Tribal identification was in her wallet. She’s of the Huron Clan.”

  Torin and Gage shared a look. Torin nodded and without breaking the tether, Gage handed him a pair of latex gloves. He slid his hands inside, one after the other, flexing his fingers for a tight fit. He took a deep breath, and slowly pulled back the white drape. He cocked his head, storing the female’s scent, like a tattoo on his brain. He swallowed hard and though it wasn’t his first homicide, nor would it be his last, a great sadness washed over him.

  Such a waste.

  She was a beauty and death had not yet robbed her of such, raven black hair, with thick lashes that swept her cheeks. She was indeed as pale as ivory, even her lips which should have been a soft pink were ghostly white and bloody, at least what was left of them, for the predator had damn near chewed them to the gums. Dried blood streaked her chin with three trails that spanned her neck, disappearing behind her head. Scanning her neck which was sliced directly over the carotid artery, it occurred to Torin that someone had purposefully made the cut, as precise as a surgeon to drain the five liters of fluid comprising her vascular system.

  The fucker fed on her like an open buffet.

  He scanned the blood congealed on the pavement around the body.

  That’s no more than two liters. The bastard must have been starving to consume three liters or else he’s a damn big Iridescent.

  “So, was I right?” the officer asked, drawing him from his thoughts. “Do you think this one’s missing blood?”

  “Would appear so,” Torin said, his expression wary.

  The Council’s not going to like this.

  “How does one account for such?” The officer inquired with a scowl. “All of the victims are Chippewa, young and beautiful, throat slit, drained of blood.”

  Torin dragged in a breath and his brows furrowed. “I can’t explain it,” he lied. “Maybe some ritual or voodoo, I hear human blood fetches a big price on the black market.”

  The officer shook his head. “Probably occult or witchcraft. There’s a lot of devil worship these days, damn dangerous world we live in.” A couple of the other officers joined in mumbling amongst themselves and Torin heard one say, “Sad damn world to be raising kids.”

  Torin cast his eyes back to the corpse.

  Especially if they’re Chippewa females.

  The officer at his side leaned closer. “You got kids, Mancini?”

  “No,” Torin said, unbidden images of his wife’s miscarriage flashing in his mind.

  “That’s good, at least you can sleep at night. I got four little ones, worries me sick thinking something like this could happen.” He leaned even closer and whispered. “I hope you catch him soon.”

  Torin took a deep breath, the officer was too close for comfort and his scent was compelling, so much so that he was aware that he had sex in the last two hours and hadn’t showered. He caught the scent of a woman wafting from his skin, middle aged and on her period. He forced his mind from the officer and for once, he wished that he couldn’t read humans. He grasped the drape bunched beneath the victim’s chin and slid it down from her chest, careful not to touch or contaminate the crime scene. Her blouse was literally ripped and hanging to her sides, her bra cut by a sharp blade. Her breast was covered in dried, cracked blood, the nipples chewed off, most likely swallowed or taken as a trophy. He moved the drape off her lower body, which was nude, her panties nowhere in sight. He leaned closer examining her inner thighs which were riddled with bite marks smeared over in dried blood which had blackened. His eyes narrowed, tracing the deep furrowed slashes that ran from her bloody labia trailing to her buttocks.

  The sonofabitch used his fangs to torture her.

  He took a deep breath, nostrils flaring, the distinctive smell of semen wafting and though he knew beyond a shadow of doubt that mortals could not detect the scent, his face warmed. He dropped his head.

  You didn’t deserve this.

  “Whew! Stinks to high heaven,” the big man at his side mumbled as he stood up and turned his head, gasping for air.

  Torin snapped his dark eyes to the officer. “It’s the sun, it does that to a corpse.” He turned back and though the scent now escaping her corpse was putrid, he focused, scanning one last time for detail.

  “She fought him,” Torin said, as he stood up and took off his gloves. “Bag her hands, half her nails are broken off, and there’s a good chance his DNA is salvageable.” He countered a look from Gage. “Be sure to swab her, inside and out. I doubt he used a condom, this attack was pressured, he wanted her bad and he took what he needed, quickly.”

  Gage, donning a paper gown with his hands gloved, dropped down beside the corpse. Torin stepped back giving him room to work. He noticed that the big officer was pale as a sheet. “Are you okay?”

  “Queasy,” the big man moaned.

  “Deep breaths.” Torin said.

  The officer heaved his chest, taking in air.

 
; “Do we have a weapon?” Torin asked.

  “No, he lamented with obvious regret. “Sorry, we searched the alley and the construction site just beyond the dumpster. Nothing.”

  Torin turned away, watching as Gage worked his magic, collecting evidence. He took a breath, heady with death and though he and Gage both knew this whole scenario was but a guise and that none of the evidence would ever be used, they played their part, right down to Gage complaining that someone had bumped the corpse from its original position.

  “No way,” the big officer objected.

  Gage pointed out the proof as evidenced by a section of dried blood with the victim’s hair stuck to it, stretched inches from the corpse.

  The officers began to argue, accusing one another as Gage met Torin’s gaze, mission accomplished, mayhem the result. Gage resumed his task. He took samples and tightly bagged the girl’s hands. He used tweezers to pick up two of her red polished nails lying near her side and bag them. He swabbed her inner thighs and bagged the pipettes, then with precision swabbed her breast and mangled lips and bagged the tipped applicators. Finding her panties as he lifted her legs to swab her vagina, he retrieved and bound them in plastic. Finally, he stood up and cast his eyes to the big officer. “Use gloved technique to body bag and transport.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I want this entire area searched for—”

  “We already did,” the officer interrupted.

  “Do it again,” Gage said. “Even the dumpster. I need the weapon, it’s crucial.”

  “You heard the man,” the officer barked. “Get to it!”

  Gage stashed his sealed bags in a case for transport, took off his gloves and walked toward Torin, “We’re done here, Detective,” he said without a hint of emotion.

  “Carry on,” Torin said, briefly making eye contact with the big officer. He turned, Gage at his side, and striding from the crimes scene, past the barriers, held up his arm to cover his face as photographers snapped pictures, reporters dogging them for tips. They forged a path directly for the sanctity of the Charger.

  Inside the car, shielded by dark tinted glass, Torin slammed his fist to the steering column. “Damn it that’s three in the last three weeks.”