Casting the First Stone Section 1 of 4 Copyright 1998 W. R. DeAngelo Rights to post granted to FTP site and FK fanfic site only. Names of persons associated with Fk fandon purposely used with their permission and are meant in fun / tribute. Everyone else, it's just a coincidence, folks. This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. 1. Chapter Paris, France June 1572 The man, for such he seemed, looked deeply into the darkness, then entered in. He picked his way through the reeking, dank, Parisian alley to the apartment door, shuddering in revulsion as he moved. He placed a trembling hand on the latch, a cheap wood affair, old and dangerous, while the comfortless alley closed around him as tightly as a noose. He had made his decision. She would be disappointed, but not surprised. His master would be abusive and superior. He removed his hand from the door, hesitating before the splintered door. He could leave without telling them, but he knew they would hunt him down. They would have sensed his presence long before he had turned the corner. They waited within, fully aware of his anxiety and duplicity. Was he afraid? Would they let him go? He already wore his traveling clothes, for he intended to leave tonight. The still air was suffocating and humid. He felt his hair matted and curling in the wet air of the alley. He could not wait for dry weather. He could not bear another moment hopeless and lost in Paris. Relentless, unchanging, forever, each of his nights began and ended with the same compulsions, the same empty obsessions, the same sins, and the same dissatisfactions. They had done this to him. He had done this. He loved them for all they had given him, and he hated them. Nicholas pushed open the wood door to their latest sanctuary. Hunters had picked up their scent two weeks ago and, lest they be murdered in their sleep, he and his companions had withdrawn to this dingy apartment until it was safe to return to Parisian society. It was during these intermittent, enforced recluses that he felt most heavily the burden of his existence. Mold and mildew, the ambience of the tomb, hung about the apartment along with the rotted bed curtains. He stepped through and shoved the warped door back into its frame. "Nicholas returns," said LaCroix, who stood tall and pale next to Janette. She was seated next to him, neutral as glass. LaCroix sipped from the chalice in his left hand, the irises of his eyes colorless in the firelight. Janette said nothing, but Nicholas could see her ever-present cynicism in her eyes. Her raven hair, undone, fell about her shoulders, depthless as black water. Her rich costume, so incongruous with the room, reminded Nicholas of the recurring indignities in their lives. "You were right, my dear," continued LaCroix. Firelight reflected from his pale face. "He did not abandon us. He does condescend to rejoin our little company." "I would quit you at once, but there is only this one, appalling, room," Nicholas replied. "I do not require your thanks, only your obedience." "You shall have neither. Must I thank you for bringing me to this," and Nicholas swept his hand about the room, "enviable situation, your honor, your lordship, you venerable, you General, by whatever tired designation you lately appropriate, Lord Lucien LaCroix." Nicholas bowed extravagantly to his master. "It is this again, is it? I remind you, your life is the result of your choice, not mine. Now you regret everything, even your Janette?" LaCroix's eyes moved smoothly to the silent woman beside him. Nicholas felt the injury, as he remembered his mercurial Janette. "No, never." She smiled. "Then you resent me." LaCroix set his cup down and stepped toward Nicholas, who backed away from his master until his back was against the wall. "You blame me. I gave you a gift unimaginable, one that cannot be purchased for love or gold, one for which men sell their souls." "I want my soul back!" "You gave it away with your mortality," said LaCroix. "It is gone, dead ash along with all the pathetic mortals you knew three hundred years ago. That was your choice, live or die. You chose to live." "Did I?" "This is not death," pronounced LaCroix acidly. "You reward my pains with insult and derision." LaCroix grasped Nicholas by the shoulders and hurled him against the opposite wall, shaking the thin panels. Splinters fell from the ceiling. Nicholas felt something split inside his head with the impact. He reached up to his left ear. His hand was wet with blood. "Be reasonable," said Janette, pulling LaCroix back. "He is bored. He has too much empty time and little to distract him." Nicholas steadied himself for another assault. His lightheadedness passed as his wounds healed. Would this be the night he pushed LaCroix too far? LaCroix said, "In the beginning, you showed such promise, such ingenuity and audacity. Now you come to me in this sorry condition, apologizing for your existence. I weary of your incomprehensible caprices. It is I who am mistaken. It is I who am sorry I brought you across and made you our friend." "I thought," said Nicholas, wiping the blood from his hair before it reached his collar, "I was your slave." "The slave sleeps in the barn." Nicholas smashed the wall with his fist. "And what is this? I can not tell whether this squalor be barn or not." "You are my son, not my slave. Blood ties never can be broken." "It is you that will not release me." "You would not go." "I go now." "Nicholas?" Janette said. "What do you mean?" Nicholas prepared to fight his way back to the alley. "I will not return." "You will," said LaCroix. "You always do." "I go to England." "Why?" Janette turned hastily to LaCroix. "Stop him! This is your doing, and yours. You quarrel endlessly, like two boys! I am sick to death of it." "If only I could be sick to death of anything instead of everything," said Nicholas. Nicholas felt LaCroix's mind probing him for signs of weakness. He tried to fight it but did not know how. His master said, "England, is it? What do you expect to find in England?" "I expect to find," but here Nicholas stopped, suddenly embarrassed, foolish. "I expect to find what I always find, nothing." "As I suspected. You have unearthed yet another savior who promises to redeem your pocked soul." Nicholas refused to answer. "In which province of Galilee does this one reside?" "Yes, at least tell us where you are going." Janette took Nicholas by the hand. She dabbed at the blood on his neck with her handkerchief. "Where in England?" "Saffron Walden, north of London." "No, no." LaCroix shook his head in amusement. "You are not to make a pilgrimage to see that madman with whom you have been corresponding. He knows nothing. What does a mortal know of immortality?" LaCroix went to the cluttered table by the window and threw the papers there to the floor. "He is a self indulgent farmer with just enough money to see his delusions printed in pamphlets. He is a false seer who has seen nothing of the world." "I am going, I do not need your permission." "I think you do." Nicholas waited, his eyes fixed on the wasted letters from his correspondent. He knew if it were LaCroix's wish, he could prevent Nicholas from departing. Nicholas might be required to die where he stood. He considered whether that would or would not make a suitable end to their relationship. "Your life," said LaCroix, "would be less difficult if you would wait on my opinion." "I always know your opinion." LaCroix lowered his voice. "What is it that this farmer offers you that justifies your enthusiasm. What is it that you need that we do not give you?" LaCroix circled Nicholas. "Is it love? Salvation? Forgiveness? Hope? I have given you all that and more. I have given you life." "This is not life. Nor are we dead. We are worse than dead. We would fare better dead." Nicholas tried to leave, but LaCroix pulled him back from the door and slammed him against the wall again. Nicholas felt his ribcage swim in his chest. "We accept you for what you are, my son, we know you for what you are. It is useless to keep apologizing for what can not be changed. You have perfection. It is a fool who fights nature, and that is what you are," LaCroix pressed Nicholas' falling collar into a crisp, fastidious fold as he concluded, "a fool." Nicholas had never before felt such complete contempt for his master. "You created me. Apparently, you were insufficient to the task." LaCroix's smile came slowly like a cobra uncoiling. He fell back a step. Abruptly, he pulled open the door. Janette crossed her arms and turned her back. "Where are you going?" asked Nicholas, though he already knew his master's intentions. LaCroix's eyes glowed with amber malevolence. "It is an hour before sunrise. I still thirst." A moment later, he was gone. Saffron Walden, England, August 1572 Nicholas knew his belongings arrived during the day, but he hesitated to deliver himself to the door. He lingered with his mount, on a small knoll rising up within the common woods. Beyond the tree line lay the property of Edmund Waltham, a local yeoman whose increasing prosperity might soon convert him into gentry. The Waltham farm grew coriander and teazel, but its primary crop was saffron. The fragile purple crocus required considerable care to maintain and diligence to harvest its valuable orange red stamens. Nicholas had purposely planned his visit to fall after the spring harvest, which occurred between Lady Day and Midsummer, and before Michaelmas when the roots were divided. Imagining the picture the crocus in its season must present, Nicholas ached for the sunshine and to witness the glorious vernal transformation when the purple blossoms painted the entire countryside with lavender. At the end of the path below him slept Waltham Hall, its skeleton of dark timber and white plaster walls winked at him through the swaying trees. Nicholas wondered what awaited him there. Unwelcome voices whispered in his mind, persuading, prophesying, and admonishing. He considered the difficulty of his position and his stratagem for handling it. By surrounding himself with glamours and deceits, he intended to fool the innocents into believing he was the man he professed to be in his letters. Straightening his seat, Nicholas jerked the reins slightly to inform his mount that its rider was still awake. The horse snorted and danced a moment before quieting again. Was LaCroix right? He often was, though Nicholas was loath to admit it. Was this a fool's errand, or worse? Whenever he tried to live with mortals as an equal, it ended badly. Nicholas twitched his face aside, unwilling to look at his own memories. No, this time it would be different, he vowed, his hands tightening on the reins. LaCroix would never understand his quest, his desperate need to cleanse his polluted soul. Instead, his master derided his efforts and destroyed those mortals for whom he expressed affection. "Yes," Nicholas affirmed to himself. It was his master, LaCroix, who was the author of all the misery in his life. The fiend had offered him immortality as a gift, as freedom, as unending adventure. He had failed to impress upon Nicholas that, as mortality is natural to mortals, unnatural desire curses the immortal. Instead of freedom, he suffered bondage. Instead of adventure, he was the monster wanting destruction by the hero's hand. Left on his own, all would be well; he was certain of it. Nicholas would find his answers and, if not release from his cursed existence, then peace of mind in a new philosophy. LaCroix, his old friend and mentor, LaCroix be damned. Yes, all would fare well as long as his master kept his distance. Only one vampire remained to pose a threat to the welfare of his hosts. Nicholas de Brabant, himself. ------ >>> 2. Chapter Toronto Nick stood outside of the sound booth, watching through the glass and listening to his master speak. "Good evening, friends. Welcome to Night Watch. I am your host, The Night Crawler. As I do every night, I am here to accompany you on your journey from darkness to dawn. The way is fraught with peril and uncertainty. Walk with me, stay with me; never leave my side. You may be spared." The red On Air light dimmed, and LaCroix spoke into the intercom to his technician. "I have a visitor. I require an hour." He snapped several switches, leaned back in his chair. Nick entered the booth without knocking. LaCroix had broadcast his Night Watch programs from the CERK building originally. But several months ago, he had purchased The Raven from his daughter, Janette DuCharme when she had dissolved all of her local assets. She had left without telling Nick, and he still felt hurt by her sudden disappearance. LaCroix used his personal fortune to install the soundproof booth from which he could simultaneously broadcast and observe the club patrons. His office and private rooms lay footsteps away further back in the club and downstairs in the basement. He lived comfortably in Janette's vacated apartments. Two steps inside, Nick placed one hand up against the smooth surface of the soundproof glass to support himself. Soon he found the effort was too much of a strain. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. "You return. Dare I hope this is a social call?" "LaCroix," said Nick softly, "I need your help. I do not want to argue." Nick propelled himself forward only to drop into the leather-lined chair that sat before LaCroix's console. He rested his head deep in the leather. He was starving. "When was the last time you fed?" asked LaCroix. "I don't' know." LaCroix made no effort to hide his disgust. He was hardly changed from the night Nick first had the misfortune to meet him. His hair was still as white and bristle short as it had been when he was a Roman general. His browlines were still dark and high, as though applied by the expert hand of a transvestite. LaCroix looked down at everyone, for he was tall, and because he felt entitled. He looked down now as he uncorked a green bottle and handed it to Nick. The extravagant label boasted pedigree and vintage in gilt letters, but made no mention of wine. Nick stared at it a moment, knowing he should resist, ask for something different, then upending it, swallowed its contents. He had flirted with starvation before, but had never managed to swear off drinking entirely. "I ran out of stock." Nick heard his own voice as if it were coming to him from very far away. "I can't remember. Three days, or was it four? Five? I lost track. I forgot to lay up more stock from my butcher." "It is beneath you to fill your own bottles at this stage of your life," said LaCroix. "I am surprised you can tolerate the scent of a mortal in such a state." He handed Nick a second bottle. "No," said Nick, "I couldn't." He was here because he had no place else to go. As Nick sat across from his partner, Tracy Vetter, earlier that night, he suddenly became acutely aware of her. When she reached over to borrow a pen from him, the pulse twitching at her wrist transfixed him. An odd thought passed through his mind. What would Internal Affairs do if one of their Toronto Homicide Detectives, in the middle of his shift, slashed open the carotid of his partner? His attention flowed from her forearm to the pulse at her throat. Soon he could hear its subtle rhythm, sensing its sweet cargo as it was enriched by each even breath. He heard the blood rushing through her veins, passing into her heart, through each chamber one by one, then racing back through her arteries. The entire precinct room became thick with heat and beating hearts and he fled without explanation. Nick quickly emptied the second bottle. "Satisfy my curiosity, not that I care particularly why you insist upon denying yourself, but what were your intentions this time?" Nick looked at the empty bottle, his vision marred by pink tears. LaCroix delicately removed the empty container and placed a third bottle into Nick's shaking hands. "I told you. I was working. I just forgot." "Ridiculous. We deliver. We do stock that pathetic cow swill you insist upon drinking. Why will you not set up an account with us?" "I would rather not." Nicholas poured the contents of the third bottle down his throat, at last feeling a measure of self-control return. It was human blood though, and he felt delirious. He tried not to show the effect it was having on him to his master, but his mind was reeling from a new hunger. He was so hungry. One mortal satisfied so quickly. He would need more before he dared leave. His head spun. He leaned forward. He felt sick. "I see you operate on the flimsy hope that you will be cured any moment. You wait on your miracle." LaCroix removed the third bottle from Nicholas' hand and replaced it with a fourth. "See, the kingdom you seek is at hand." "I don't want this." Nick felt stronger. "Get me something else." "You know where the cellar is." Nicholas stood, but had to sit down again. Was it the hunger or the human blood? LaCroix was taking advantage of the situation, but Nick felt too sick and too hungry to argue. "Cursed," he said and emptied the fourth bottle. "Vampires have lived on human blood for millennia as our right by nature, but you have to be different." "Choose a different topic." "Certainly. Let us discuss your car." Nicholas wiped his mouth with his hand. "Try another subject." "Do you have it with you?" "Yes." Nick had been concerned that he was too weak to drive but he drove anyway. In the air, he was afraid he might be too weak to forego hunting before he reached his destination. "I will have a cooler loaded into your vehicle and we will set up an account for you for one case a month, just enough to keep you from embarrassing our Community." "I said, no." "Think of the satisfaction when you come to me and cancel your account." Nick sighed, then held out a hand for another bottle. Later as he drove away from The Raven, Nick checked his watch. He didn't know how he was going to explain this one. At the precinct, there was a message for him. His partner was already waiting for him at a crime scene. He got back in his car and headed west to The Annex. Nick parked his vintage 62' metallic blue Caddy on Bernard Street and leaned against its side. He still felt lightheaded. His large car nearly blocked the narrow street. The home was an asymmetrical corner-towered Romanesque style that Nick recognized from the early 1900's. Arches delineated the deep reveals of the windows and front door. A round turret with an imbrication of brown fish scale shingles capped the corner tower. An ambitious cottage style garden graced the small plot in front. Roses bloomed in abundance and morning glories wound up the wrought iron fencing near the curb. Myrtle and hostas obviated the need for grass. There was not a hint of disrepair, although the structure was nearly one hundred years old. The owner had put in the time and money to recover this home from the injuries dealt it by time. Nick remembered how magnificent these Victorians were new. "Nick?" He heard Tracy before he saw her. She charged down the front walkway to him. She had been Nick's partner for several months, ever since his first partner, Don Schanke, had died in a plane crash. She was new to working homicide and to detective work, having been recently promoted. He missed Schanke. Nick checked himself. He tended to treat Tracy as a rookie because she seemed so young. Then again, everyone was so much younger than he was. It was just that she was such a fresh faced, slender, blue-eyed blonde with a page boy haircut trying to step into Schanke's sizable shoes. Unexpectedly, she had created new problems for him that threatened his continuing position on the force and his ability to remain in Toronto. He could not afford to let his guard down when she was around. Facing him down, hands on her hips, Tracy was making the best of a bad situation. Nick recognized the clipped tone of her voice. "It's about time you got here. I had to beg a ride from Captain Reese. It's embarrassing. We need to get coordinated." "The Captain is here?" Nick was surprised. "I smell coffee. Again." He tried a weak smile. "Are you hearing me? Never off without me again. We are supposed to be partners." "What are you eating? Are those coffee beans?" Tracy waved a small plastic bag. "Chocolate-covered espresso beans. My coffee maker is on the blink. You know me, I can't function without caffeine." "Sorry to hear about your loss." "Thanks. The subject is you ditching me at the precinct. Can't you leave a note? I have a phone. And voicemail." "Shall I tell you the number of times you left me without an explanation? Do you have something against backup?" "I didn't take your transportation." Tracy popped a bean into her mouth. Crunch. "You can't expect me to take the subway to crime scenes." "Where were you last night over lunch?" countered Nick. He hoped that he didn't already know. Tracy stopped mid-crunch and swallowed. "None of your beeswax." "Someone on the force I know?" "I was seeing a friend." Tracy jangled her beans. Nick knew he had touched a nerve. "The subject is you ditching me." "In the future, I won't take the car again without you." "Promise?" Crunch, crunch. "I'd like that in writing." "Cross my heart and hope to die." "Not necessary. Want a bean?" Nick shook his head, no, then pointed to the house. The detectives mounted the steps, stepped over the yellow police tape, and passed under the wide marquee to the recessed front door. It was painted a startling red to welcome visitors. "So," said Nick, "why is the Captain here?" "Correction. The Captain was here. The Captain already left and he'll have a few choice words for you when you get back to the precinct; words like reliability, punctuality, and reassignment to traffic." "And?" "We doubt this is an isolated case." "That bad?" Tracy shrugged. "See for yourself." Nick pushed open the door with his elbow. They both entered the foyer. Inside, monoliths of glass and mirrors ruined the late Victorian ambience as harsh shards of reflected light flew from every polished surface. The second floor to the front room had been removed so the bay area could extend uninterrupted up through the turrets. Light, both natural and artificial fell from above to drown the white carpeting. All the outside light, albeit moonlight, caused Nick to grieve in surprise. It was though a large knife had hacked openings into the ceiling. Ceiling high windows had been installed along the rear of the home beyond the kitchen. Beautiful landscaping seemed to grow uninterrupted through the glass, spilling into dinning area. In short, the interior had been converted from an 1890's drawing room into a 1980's great room. The regrettable showcase was early noveau riche, expansive, white, and undoubtedly expensive. Nick was appalled. "Nice, isn't it?" said Tracy. "Sure," answered Nick without conviction. "This is gorgeous, but the cost! I can't imagine! When the sun shines through all these windows, I'll bet it's like springtime in winter." Nick gazed up into the ill-considered high ceilings blasted from the first through the second floor. They were surrounded by fichus, orchids, azaleas, norfolk firs, and the variegated leaves of tropical plants. A monstrous pothos rose up a trellis affixed to the stone wall along the fireplace and a large palm arched over the far right window in the kitchen. An aquarium had been installed, covered by glass within the low table serving the living room. It glowed like a forest pond. "I'll never live in a place like this. At least not while I'm an honest cop." "Pity that," said Nick generously. The Mobile Crime Unit was well into cataloguing the scene, lifting prints, photographing, and indexing. A silver black film of magnetic dactylogical dust covered the brass door handles, etched windows, and ostentatious ominium gatherum of the residence. It seemed to Nick somehow insulting, after a murder, to desecrate the home with black dust and strangers. "Over here," said Tracy, motioning Nick to the kitchen. The body lay behind the oversized kitchen island. Nick sensed no blood, but was acutely aware of the foul scent of death. Tracy sighed. "Here it is." Her face twisted as Nick came around the edge of the island and took his first look at the deceased. The body of a brown-haired, middle aged woman in twill pants and denim shirt lay on the white ceramic tiles. The back arched up painfully. Complete rigor mortis had set in, petrifying the body in the last spasm of death. The stilled face communicated the victim's final agony with a horrible grimace and wide green eyes. Nick had seen a great deal of death in his life, but he had never before appreciated a body so nightmarishly preserved, except on the frozen fields of war. Dr. Natalie Lambert, the Medical Examiner, stood with her back to the refrigerator, reviewing the notations on her clipboard. Despite the business suit, her Raphaelite curls and sleepy eyes reminded Nick of the cover of a romance novel. That was only fair, for she was the most unrequited of all unrequited loves. She looked up from her notes as the detectives regarded the body. "Finally," she said pointedly to Nick. Natalie never minced words, rarely tripped, had true grit, sensible heels and all those other qualities that might induce Sam Spade to say, "She's a swell, gutsy gal." Like Tracy, she could also say, "My boyfriend is a vampire." Nick's life had become way too complicated. Nick first became acquainted with her six years ago. The EMT's delivered him to her in a body bag from which he proceeded to leak vital fluids all over her autopsy slab. While she was on the phone, his mushy puddle of human remains recoalesced into a walking, talking creature with an inappropriate interest in the blood bags from her cold storage. To his surprise, and to the credit of swell, gutsy gals everywhere, she did not faint, or scream. Nick had hopped off her table and told her he was dead. She disagreed. Vehemently. She took him on as her personal science project. She would cure him, she said. In a bizarre reversal of Frankenstein's experiment, she would turn a monster into a man. He couldn't believe his luck. He was hopeful for the first time in many decades. But now he realized that she had less interest in Frankenstein and more interest in starring in her own version of Building Mr. Right. They began a strange pas de deux, moving around their private ballroom in shortening circles, alternately stepping forward and away from each other, afraid to dance too closely. He felt guilty for her along with everything else in his life. For her sake, he should move on. But he didn't. Nick said, "What have you got, Nat." "Female, Caucasian, named Ima Embrey. According to her driver's license she was 45 years old. Probably poison. T.O.D. recent. And you're late." "Poison?" said Nick. "Are you sure? Not trauma?" He leaned over and inspected the corpse. The face leered hideously back at him, teeth and gums fully exposed, as if it knew his secrets and was laughing at him. "Why isn't the face flaccid?" "Strychnine grin is what it's called. The signs," she gestured toward the odd, exaggerated arc of the body, "are, well, unmistakable. I'm as sure as I can be without a post mort. The extreme opistotonos, caused the body to arch back like that." "Let's pretend I don't know what the word 'opistiotomy' means," Tracy said. She had retreated to the opposite side of the kitchen island. "Strychnine causes horrific spasms. The stiffness starts in the face and neck, similar to lockjaw. Then the entire body spasms unrelentingly until the victim dies. Rigor mortis sets in unusually fast, leaving us with this. That's why the styrchnine grin. Usually facial expression is lost immediately upon death, but here it is preserved. I'm sure the labs will confirm strychnine or a derivative." Tracy pulled out her casebook. "Our victim left one wine glass on the island for the lab." "Are you thinking suicide? That's not what you said outside," Nick said to Tracy. "We're 99.99% sure it wasn't a suicide," answered Tracy. "I'd think a suicide victim would choose something less awful," said Nat. "I can't think of anything worse than strychnine." "Arsenic," responded Nick. "Madame Bovary used arsenic." Tracy made a face and said, "That took days, Nick. And it was fiction." "I sincerely doubt suicide," continued Nat, "unless it was someone ignorant of the effects strychnine. If this is murder, and he knew the effects, he is a very angry killer." "Here is our problem." Tracy drew her partner carefully around and over to the head of the body and pointed to the floor. "We're not sure what these are. We're certain the victim didn't put them here and then arrange to die in just this spot." "The contortions," said Nat. "She couldn't possibly do this herself. Someone waited, and watched, then arranged the pieces. Really nice." Tracy pointed to the floor above the head. "I hope these aren't satanic. The Captain is afraid this is some sort of ritual killing." Nick knelt down near the head and looked at the floor. There were three, small, glossy black stones, of a size comfortable to fit into the heart of his hand, arranged linearly over the top of the head. They stood in stark relief against the white ceramic. "Hematite," observed Nick. Tracy knelt next to him. "What does that mean?" "I don't know. They're cheap though, common as dirt. You've taken the pictures and sketches?" "Oh yeah," said Tracy, with a hint of sarcasm, "we've had plenty of time." She handed Nick a cloth. Using the cloth, Nick picked up one of the stones carefully and inspected it. On it was a symbol hand painted in gold acrylic. It was an x with an inverted v on top. It resembled a fish. He set it down and picked up the second stone. It was a simple arrow pointing up. The third stone depicted two x's, one set on top of the other forming a diamond in the middle. "Do you recognize them, Nick? You always know the obscure information." "I don't know what they mean, but I know what they are, and it is a message." He set the last stone down gently where he had picked it up. "They're Runes." "Runes!" exclaimed Tracy. "That's right! The Cap was so worked up about this being some kind of satanic killing, I completely forgot. I knew they looked familiar. Can you read them?" Nick stood and ran one hand through his hair. "No, I can't. They're used to cast fortunes, but I don't know how it is done. I agree, I don't like this elaborate Rune business." Nat said, "I don't have anything else for you. Unlike some people who have all sorts of time to waste, the EMTs and I are past ready to leave. Do we have your go ahead?" Nick nodded. "I'll schedule the post mort for late tomorrow for you, but I'll run the labs right away to verify the poison." "Sure. Thanks. Sorry I was so late." Nick tried smiling at her, though smiling did not seem to be doing him any good tonight. "Better late than never?" "Ah, not clever enough," returned Nat. She nodded to Tracy conspiratorially, "Later." The gurney was brought and, with difficulty, the body was lifted and secured. Then the EMTs pushed it out of the room, followed closely by the M.E.. Nick watched her go, shoving his hands in his pockets. He still had his scene inspection left, even though Trace was going to spoon feed the details to him. "What else did I miss?" "Our victim is a Chartered Accountant," said Tracy. "Independent." "You found that where?" Tracy, helped herself to another expresso bean before she answered. She must have skipped breakfast again. "Hours of sleuthing while you were out goofing off. She has her office set up in the other room. I'm a really good cop, so I cleverly read the information on her business card." "Uh huh. Then there is a list of clients for us to look through." "For you to look through, you mean. You owe me big time. Yes, a Rolodex and files. Computer Ops already carried away her entire database. You missed all the excitement." Another shot. "We think the victim knew the killer," she continued. "There was no forced entry. We didn't find any sign of a second party except for the stones. Whoever did it, cleaned up afterwards or avoided mussing up the room." Nick walked about as Tracy spoke. He studied the objects on a large brass and glass etagere. The victim had a penchant for brass and Austrian crystal animals. A 5 x 7 photo rested on the highest shelf. He stood on his toes to get a better look. It was a photo of the victim with two young girls, about twelve years old. Who was this woman to these girls? Mother? Aunt? "Do we have anything on the family, yet?" Tracy said, "We found an address book, but it is a little late in the day to start making random calls. No one in it shared her last name. Embrey seems to have lived alone. Those girls might be cousins or nieces. Or maybe she has an ex and the girls are living with him. We don't know." "Who found the body then?" "We did. It was an anonymous call from our 'killer'," said Tracy using her fingers to wave quotation marks about the last word. "Male. He said, 'there is a homicide at', and gave the address. The recording was short; I don't think we'll get much from it. He might have called from here so we're checking the phone records. Other than that, I just stayed here all night drawing sketches of the room and waiting for you to answer your phone." "Truce, already. You have to forgive me sometime," said Nick. "No, I don't. There I was, sitting at my desk, working, and the Captain comes over with the call here on Bernard. He was pretty excited and he asks, 'Where's Knight?' I look up and you've disappeared. No note, nothing. You didn't even tell me you'd left the building so we had...." "I know, the usual conversation." Tracy eyed him coolly, a note of concern in her voice. "Is there something you're not telling me? Is it a drinking problem, perhaps?" Tracy's mother was an alcoholic so she imagined everyone was on the verge of developing a drinking problem. "No, I just had to pick something up. I thought I'd be back in less than half an hour." "Two hours, Nick?" said Tracy. "At least. That's as far as I could tell, anyway. I thought you booked off without telling me." Nick sighed. "Am I working penance Saturday?" "Unless the Captain kills you first. And even if he does, he'll probably make you come in and work the extra shift after you're dead." Nick found this acutely funny and laughed. "If that is what it takes." "You are incorrigible." "So I'm told. Did you find anything else while you were here doing both our jobs?" "Since you asked," Tracy said escorting him back to the front room. "I struck paydirt, in fact. I kept this here so you could see it before it was packed up." She pulled on a pair of latex gloves and opened a large, blue scrapbook waiting atop the aquarium table. Inside was a thick collection of photos and papers. Apparently, Ms. Embrey frequented all the theater districts. On each page she enshrined ads, programs, and tickets. All the large productions are here, Ragtime, Phantom, Les Miz, Showboat, some of them more than twice, as well as at least one hundred smaller productions and cabarets. A photo is glued to the bottom of each page. "Look," said Tracy pointing. "Our victim in each picture. They took a group photo on each occasion, usually at a restaurant. There are several pictures with the two girls you saw over on the shelf. Some of these must be dates, family or friends. There is a good chance that our perp is in one of these pictures." Nick nodded. "Who are these people?" Tracy obligingly flipped the pages for him. "I noticed that too. There are a lot of pictures of her with this crew. I think a quarter or more of the photos are of these same six or seven people." She stopped and turned the album so Nick could see well. In the photo, the victim, Ima Embrey, and her companions, raised their glasses in salute over the remains of a meal. Everyone smiled at the camera with big open mouths as if it were a New Year's celebration. It was a strange assortment of people that crowded about the table. In the back stood a tall and strikingly handsome Native man wearing an expensive suit and haircut. On his right, her head just reaching his shoulder, lounged a round, seductively dressed Caucasian woman with mounds of wavy brown hair, very white teeth and very bright pink lipstick. Seated to her right, with his arm about her waist, sat a white male with thick honey colored hair. Beneath his nose dripped a voluptuous moustache. The most casually dressed of the group, he looked as suspiciously friendly as an insurance salesman. To the left of the tall man stood, or rather posed a slender woman of bloodless white complexion and shoe polish black hair slicked wetly against her head. This same head was thrown back for dramatic effect. She held in her right hand, of all things, a long, silver cigarette holder such as Nick had not seen in years. Seated immediately in front of her was the victim, Ima Embrey. Finally, to Ima's left, sat an older, short, severely obese white man in a rumpled suit, grinning as if he were sitting on a pinecone. Either he was not photogenic or he was concerned about the long, line of ash hanging precariously from the end of the cigarette holder over his head. Nick straightened and looked about the room. He still had a lot of observations and notes to take. It was a big house. "It's a good start. I suppose it's about time I went to work." "About time is right," Tracy said as she popped another bean in her mouth. She held out the bag to her partner. "Sure you won't have a cup?" 3. Chapter It was a long night. Nick drove home, unloaded the cooler from The Raven at his warehouse loft and left the Caddy there. He lifted up through the skylight and into the night air. He didn't have much time until sunrise and this might take awhile. Minutes later, Nick saw him. Perched atop the abandoned church that served as his home, sat Javier Vachon, bastard son of Spanish nobility, fallen Conquistador, defender of lost causes, and most recently, restless resident of downtown Toronto, Ontario, Canada. His unkempt black hair hung to his shoulders and he observed Nick's approach with large disinterested brown eyes. Vachon was not particularly ambitious, or thoughtful, but was occasionally stirred to action by force or circumstance. He favored leather and his low- tension existence. He looked like a guy who owned a motorcycle and he did. He looked like a guy who wasted a lot of time strumming a guitar and he did. Nick had a low opinion of him, but Vachon was a member of the Community and to dispose of Vachon without cause might lead to repercussions. Nick stepped onto the church roof. He didn't like coming to see Vachon. The whole situation brought back bad memories. Nick blamed himself for his partner Schanke's death, though he realized this was irrational. But if Nick had been on the plane that night, he would have survived, as had Vachon. When the bomb had exploded midair, there were no survivors, except for Vachon and his hand which, having become detached, had arrived in the airfield's makeshift morgue without him. It had been Nick's first night with Tracy, who was taking Schanke's place that week. Nick learned later that Tracy had discovered Vachon while he was searching the body bags for his missing hand. Needing transportation and time to heal, Vachon had appropriated Tracy's car, and Tracy. She was solicitous and oddly na>> Casting the First Stone Section 2 of 4 Copyright 1998 W. R. DeAngelo Rights to post granted to FTP site and FK fanfic site only. Names of persons associated with Fk fandon purposely used with their permission and are meant in fun / tribute. Everyone else, it's just a coincidence, folks. This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. 8. Chapter Toronto "This is it," Nick said to the closed door of the precinct basement office. He knocked sharply, but there was no response. "Captain said he spoke to her last night. She volunteered to stay late and wait for us." Tracy massaged the side pocket of her magenta suit jacket containing the evidence bag. She tapped her foot. "Try knocking harder." Nick leaned an ear to the door and concentrated on the room within, analyzing the sounds with his immortal senses. He could hear a woman singing under her breath. "I'm in loooove with my caaar, got a feeeel for my automobile. I'm in looove with my caaar, string back gloves and my automolooove." "I don't think she can hear us," he said. "She's wearing headphones." Nick rapped hard again, but expecting no response, opened the door and entered. Tracy followed in. Inside the small room, an impish brunette hunched over a white poster board, oblivious to her visitors. The room contained a computer, a small light table, a copier, a large machine of unknown utility, a worktable, and shelves filled with books and files. She was intent with her rubber cement and scissors, doubtlessly putting together an exhibit for court. She turned, her hand up to her heart, when Nick shut the door. "Geez, you startled me!" she said, pushing off her headphones and cutting off the player. "Hello. You must be my appointment. I'm Dorothy Parker, Documents. You can call me Dory. Detective Vetter? Knight?" She held out her hand looking for someone to take it. Her smile was slightly deeper and off kilter to the right. Her eyes crinkled at the edges like a cat's that had just polished off the family canary. "Yes, Dory. I'm Vetter, call me Tracy." Tracy took her hand. "Nick." Nick shook her hand in turn, noting the equipment with interest. "I don't think I've been down here before." "No, I don't get much company from Homicide." She waved her hand about the office. "This isn't our office. It is just the spare equipment room. I like to work in here when I have a lot of material to sort from RCMP. I'd offer you a chair, but I only have the one." Dory parked herself, without an apology, into the lone seat before the computer. "Your Captain said you wanted to talk to me; about something good I hope." "The rumor in the department is that you know about these." Tracy pulled out the evidence bag and dangled it before Dory's face. It swayed back and forth slightly as she looked at it. "Rocks?" Dory took the bag. "You wanted to talk to me about rocks? Looks like hematite." She shrugged. "They're cheap as dirt." Nick leaned against the worktable; his arms and legs crossed. "No, the Rune markings on the rocks. The Cap called around and several people said you knew about them." Dory smirked. "I can imagine what they said." She looked through the plastic bag at the small gold symbols. "Where did you find these?" "All three stones were laid out in a row over the head of our victim, a woman," said Nick. "In a nice neat row, eh? Was it vertical or horizontal?" "Horizontal." "Do either of you know anything about Runes?" Nick shrugged. "Just that they're used for fortune telling. " He did not add that stones had been cast for him before he became a vampire. "I read some of Tolkien's books when I was a teenager," said Tracy, "but they didn't explain their meanings." "I'll tell you what, I'll bring in my Runes and my book for you to borrow. I use the Blum set." "You use Runes?" asked Tracy, raising her eyebrows. "Sure." "Why?" "I'm Norwegian. It seemed like the thing to do," laughed Dory. "It's fun." "Ah, I thought Celtic," said Nick, being friendly. "Okay, that too. Who can tell anymore?" Dory said, pulling out a paper tablet and pen. "I don't know what book your perp uses, but cross your fingers. He left you a simple three Rune casting. I need to know the exact layout." Dory wrote the three symbols onto the paper and said, "Facing the victim, which was first?" "Here," said Tracy, "I've got the photo from the scene." Dory's face sagged. She pulled her upper lip back in distaste. "Don't make me look at that." "This one," said Nick, pointing. "Left to right it was the x's, then the arrow, then the fish." "Facing the victim, were the arrow and fish pointing up or down?" "Both were up." "Okay," Dory sighed. "The problem with Runes is that their interpretation depends upon which book you're using and what question you're asking. I'm lazy. I use just one book. There is a general consensus regarding what each symbol means but," she raised her palms, "there can be a lot and I do mean a lot of gray area. Each person develops his own internal profile for each Rune based on his experiences casting. Also, in a three Rune horizontal layout, some people read them left to right, others, right to left." Tracy said, "How will you know which way to read them?" "I won't," said Dory. "Are you just going to guess?" "Sure, but we'll try it both ways and see which works best," said Dory sounding not too sure about the outcome herself. "Each Rune has an overt meaning and a deeper meaning. Either or both may be pertinent to your case. For instance, one Rune represents Man, or rather, humans. In a deeper sense, it can indicate the Cosmic Self and its growth from the mundane to the Divine. I'll spare you the details. Your guy may be working from an obscure line from another book or his own subjective delusions. We may not know what he is trying to say until you ask him." "This isn't going to be helpful?" asked Tracy. "Don't get you hopes up. This isn't going to spell out anyone's name." "Go with what you have," said Nick. "You're really putting me on the spot here," complained Dory. "We're in a hurry," said Nick for he suddenly was in a hurry. Probably, their perp was already casting about for his next victim. If this was a dead end, they had better move on. "I'll start right to left. Most people read them right to left. Maybe." Dory wrote on the paper for the detectives as she spoke. "To cast Runes, one must ask a question. The question should regard timeliness or clarification of a situation. I don't know what question this guy is asking, but let's just throw caution to the wind, shall we, and ask, 'Why kill this person?' Woman, you said?" "Woman," said Tracy. "I still have pictures if you want to look." "Ah, thank you, no," Dory said, screwing up her face. "The three Rune casting represents Overview, Challenge, and Action, in that order. That is to say, the overview of the situation, the challenge or opportunity available in the situation, and finally, the action to be taken." Nick leaned over Dory's shoulder and watched as she wrote. Now they were getting somewhere. Dory was nice enough, but she talked a lot. "The Rune for Overview is the one that looks like a fish," Dory said. "It has the connotations of separation or loss, retreat or home, and of inheritance or real property. I know that sounds bizarre, but it makes sense if you read the entire description for the Rune." Dory wrote these words next to the symbol and the word Overview on the paper. "The second Rune for Challenge, the arrow, represents the Spiritual Warrior. The Spiritual Warrior must draw on his intestinal fortitude to fight his own demons. I doubt our killer is doing battle with himself," she added. "I guess not," said Tracy. "The last Rune for Action is for fertility, fertility as in pregnancy. Once you get to the end of the pregnancy, it is too late for regrets. It is an injunction to complete what has been started." Both detectives leaned in closer over the yellow legal pad as Dory wrote out her notes. Nick said slowly, "I don't think I like what I'm hearing." Dory leaned back in her chair and studied the pad of paper in her lap. "I think this is right. On the plus side, your guy is using the obvious interpretations. I don't think you have to go deeper with these. The negative is your result. Why did he kill this woman? The overview is that there has been some kind of loss, perhaps involving money or property. Maybe this guy feels he was screwed over or something was stolen from him. That's assuming his problems are material rather than metaphysical. Perhaps he is separated from or lost his home? Did she have an ex?" "No, dayshift informed her relatives and took their statements earlier this morning" said Tracy, "According to her family, she wasn't ever married. They don't believe she had been in a serious relationship for at least a year. Dory tapped her pencil on the pad and plunged on. "The Challenge Rune identifies the Spiritual Warrior, but he's not spiritual. He's committing murder, usurping God as it were. He thinks he's the Avenging Angel. The Action slot tells him to be diligent and finish what he has started." "Right, but was this his only project?" asked Nick. "I don't know," Dory answered. Neither detective made a comment. Dory ripped the page off the pad and handed it to Tracy. She stuffed it into her casebook. Nick heard a phone ring through someone's jacket. "That's mine," confessed Tracy, pulling out her phone and popping it open with a snap. "Vetter. What?" She stepped back away from Dory and Nick and turned to the wall, cupping her hand around the mouthpiece for privacy. Nick noticed as a faint flush rose in Tracy's cheeks. "No," Tracy was saying. "What are you talking about? Why should I do that?" Nick winced. He knew who must be on the other end. He would have to have another little chat with Vachon. Nick busied himself by feigning disinterest, trying not to eavesdrop. A second later, his phone rang. "You two are a regular Maxwell Smart and Agent 99," said Dory. "Thank goodness no one has tried to issue one of those things to me." Nick nodded agreement as he pressed his phone to his ear. He wasn't sure whether these things were a convenience or a curse. "Knight. Sure, just a minute." He helped himself to the pen in Dory's hand then leaned over and wrote an address on the pad in her lap, whispering "excuse me' and 'thanks' as he did. She pulled the paper off for him and he folded it in one hand, sticking it into the pocket of his jacket. "No, I've got it. We'll get right on it Cap. Trace," he said pocketing the phone and handing Dory her pen, "We have to go." Tracy glanced over her shoulder toward her partner, then spoke in a harsh whisper into her phone, her index finger to plugging her other ear. "I have to go. No. I'm not going to argue about this. Oh, all right already. Give it to me." Tracy went to Dory and took the pen that Nick had just returned to her. In large slap dash figures she wrote a series of numbers and letters onto the pad in Dory's lap. "Yeah, well, I will when I can. I have to go." Tracy pulled the paper from the pad and gave the pen back to Dory. "Thanks. I can't believe this," she muttered putting the note in her pocket. Dory appreciated her visitors with a generous grin, putting Nick in mind of a leprechaun. "Doesn't Homicide issue their detectives pens?" "No," said Nick, "just phones." "Speaking of which," said Dory, "maybe I'd better give you my numbers." Standing, she slapped her clothes until she noticed she wasn't wearing her jacket. She fished through the one hanging from the back of her chair, and found what she was looking for. She gave Nick her business card. "There, in case there's more, heaven forbid, you can call and tell me about it." Nick gave Dory his card and said, "We just got the second one already." "Already?" gasped Tracy. "My FAX is on there. If you like, just draw me a picture." Dory moved closer to Nick and tapped the card in his hand. She smiled broadly. "You'll need to find a pen." "Hey, Nick, I've got a pen somewhere. Let's go," said Tracy as she maneuvered him to the door. "I'll drop by tomorrow night and loan you my book and Rune set," added Dory. "Appreciate it," said Nick, returning Dory's smile. He watched her hand dart to her hair and suddenly realized that she was flirting with him. Outside the door, Tracy hit Nick in the arm. "Keep your mind on your job." "I didn't say anything. You're the one taking personal calls." Tracy bit her tongue. "I need some coffee. Let's go." Two other homicide detectives from another department had originally attended to the homicide at Yonge and Charles, but the MO unquestionably linked it to their Embrey case. The investigation was reassigned as soon as the detectives on the scene made the connection. The Embrey murder was sufficiently bizarre as to attract the attention of the other departments, the case particulars had been broadcast as quickly as the precinct phone lines could carry them. Nick and Tracy arrived at the scene in Nick's Series 62 Caddy, pulled into a no parking zone and parked at an obtuse angle. Tracy still seemed out of sorts. He was still overtired from skipping too many liquid lunches. Nick considered buying his partner a new coffee maker himself. "You know the difference between a dead snake and a dead lawyer?" asked Tracy disinterestedly as got out of the car. "This is not the time." "There will be skid marks in front of the snake," finished Tracy without waiting. "What is it with you and the bad jokes, lately?" questioned Nick. It was starting to get to him. It wasn't his imagination. She was developing some sort of perverse repertoire. "Learning new jokes is part of my assertiveness training class. It is supposed to help curb your resentment and improve your attitude." "You're a cop. You carry a gun, Trace. Why do you need an assertiveness training course?" "My parents are making me nuts." Tracy's father was, unfortunately for her, Police Commissioner Vetter. He was heavy handed when it came to his daughter's career and didn't know how to take no for an answer. Nick sympathized. He had the same problem with his 'father', LaCroix. "Fine, but work on your material, will you?" Nick and Tracy walked into the entrance of the street level lobby, into a small interior mall. To their far right Nick spotted the window labeled, "Two Bears & Gillespie, Attorneys". Tracy said, "That is supposed to be a law office?" Nick surveyed the names of the other tenants of the mall: a coffee shop, a photo developer, a hair salon, and a Chinese noodle shop. "Apparently." Inside, the office was an unremarkable. Low-grade beige carpeting thinly blanketed the interior. A single reception desk sat in view of four beige chairs. Nick assumed that the deceased lay behind the closed door in the middle. A sad-faced, blonde-haired young man occupied one of the chairs. Mounted prominently behind him was a classic work from The Starving Artists Beige Period. It was hardly appropriate for a law practice. It was more like a temporary office set for a television series. Nick noticed the hasty paint job. The previous color, orange, was visible in the corners and along several edges. The two detectives on the scene met Nick and Tracy in the reception area. Det. Angela Hammond and Det. Bernie Corrigan from the 96th greeted them as they came in. Hammond was a smart dressed black woman with smooth hair and a large smile. Her partner, Corrigan, was slovenly bald man, sporting unflattering onyx plastic eyeglasses. He offered a pasty white palm to Nick. "You recognized the M.O.," said Nick. "We heard. Guess how happy we are to turn this over to you." said Corrigan. "We appreciate your sympathy," said Tracy. "The least we could do." Nick said, "Who is the deceased, and tell me you found something incriminating." "The deceased is Jonathon Two Bears," said Hammond, referring to her notes. "Get this. There is no Gillespie. I bet he thought two names looked better on the door." Tracy said, "I wonder if he had to pay extra for the second name." All four glanced around quickly at the cheap carpeting, the cheap furniture, and the cheap paneling. Nick nor anyone else made further remark. None was needed. "According to the secretary," continued Hammond, "Two Bears called him around five this afternoon and informed him that he was out of a job. He was to come to the office and pick up his check." "That's him?" asked Nick, nodding toward the man in the reception area. The blonde man's shoulders drooped. He had turned his seat so his back was to the inner office door. "Yes," Hammond said. "Fasig is across the mall getting a cuppa, but he says it matches your Embrey case. He won't say more until the post mort." "That's all right," said Nick, "Nat'll do it. She's already working on the first victim. What is the secretary's name?" asked Nick. "Claude Thomas," said Corrigan. "Good luck. We can take care of sending him over to the 96th for his statement, if you like. That's what I recommend." Nick sat down next to the young man. His jeans were rumpled and so was his faded gray T-shirt. "Mr. Thomas, I'm Det. Knight and this is my partner, Det. Vetter, from Metro Homicide. We'll be working on your employer's case. How long were you in Mr. Two Bears employ?" "What?" "How long did you work for Mr. Two Bears?" "Two weeks." Nick exchanged a quick glance with his partner. This seemed to confirm his impression of the office. The entire set up felt wrong and therefore suspicious. The office was temporary, or worse, a sham. "How did you discover Mr. Two Bear's body?" Thomas sniffed and it was unclear whether this was because of the shock over the murder or the loss of his job. "I left work at two, when his last clients arrived. I had an appointment. Then he called me at home and told me I was fired." "What time was that?" "Dinnertime. I don't know, five or six?" Thomas squirmed in his chair as if his jeans were too tight. They certainly looked it to Nick. "I was upset. This was the best job I ever had. He said it was nothing personal. The business was closing." Thomas rubbed his eyes. Nick said, "Why did you come back tonight?" "He wanted me to pick up my money and said he would give me an extra three weeks pay." Nick said, "Did he tell you why the business was closing?" Thomas rolled his vacant blue eyes toward the ceiling. Awhile later he said, "I don't know." He pinched his brows together another moment, then spoke slowly as though he had trouble forming a sentence. "He didn't seem to have many clients. Today was the first time I saw any." "What sort of law did he practice?" "I don't know." Nick breathed deeply while Tracy took her notes. The absence of hard information was quite informative. "What were your duties here?" Thomas' face brightened. "I answered the phone, made appointments, and greeted clients at the door." Tracy asked snidely, "Did the phone ever ring?" There was a pause before Thomas admitted, "No, actually. No." "Any appointments? Any walk-ins?" "Not 'til today. I guess that's why he had to close down." "Names?" said Nick. "Can you describe them?" "Don't know their names. There were three of them. It was a mousy-looking guy and a woman wearing a lot of make up. And another guy with a Scottish accent, like the guy that played the father in that ax movie." Tracy volunteered, "I think that was Meyers playing his own father." "Really? That's pretty good. But this guy had dark hair and no glasses. And he walked funny, like he had rocks in his shoes." "So, you say Mr. Two Bears called you," said Nick. "He was really mad when I told him I wouldn't be here until ten. He said it was going to screw up his whole evening." Thomas' shoulders hunched forward. "He looked so dead. Am I in trouble, officer?" Nick patted the young man on the shoulder and gestured to the two uniforms lounging against the far wall. "These officers will follow you over to the precinct and you can make a full statement. Thanks for your cooperation." Nick and Tracy left Thomas in the care of the uniforms and accompanied Hammond and Corrigan through the rear door. The body lay in front of a desk and was a good foot longer than the cheap five-foot conference table. Like Embrey, his body was frozen in an excruciating contortion. Two Bear's small office contained a standard issue office desk, and matching chairs, all undoubtedly rented, of faux pickled oak finish. A laptop computer sat on the otherwise empty desk. The office was as bare as a car stripped and abandoned by the side of a road. The shelves held no books, the desk no papers, office stationary or personal effects. Even the wastebasket was missing, as if only the large furniture was left for the movers to load. "Hematite," said Hammond. "I see it everywhere. It must be common as dirt." Nick knelt by the body. If the man died between six and ten that night, then the rigor mortis was characteristically premature. It certainly indicated a poisoning similar to the Embrey case. The three silver gray stones over the head sealed the connection. Opening his notebook, he copied the Rune symbols down. The first stone on the left had two brackets, facing open to each other. The second looked like an upside down R. The third puzzled him, for it did not appear to have anything written on it. He took his pen and tipped the stone from side to side to double check. Blank. "This is so weird," said Hammond. "Did you get anything on the stones from the first scene?" "They're Runes," said Tracy. "Our killer is on a mission from God." "That can't be good," said Corrigan. "I'll tell you what we do know, Trace," said Nick. "Remember the tall, dark Native man in the photos? Apparently his name was Jonathan Two Bears, Attorney at Law." Nick gestured over the body in introduction. It was hard to recognize the face, but it was undoubtedly the man from the album. Tracy leaned over and peered into the distorted features of the victim. "Absolutely. We have to track down the rest of the people in the photographs before the killer gets to them," insisted Tracy. "We'll have to ask the Cap to get days to help comb through Embrey's files." "It just got easier." Nick snapped on a glove and tapped the touchpad on the desktop. The screen glowed dark blue. "We can start cross referencing Embrey's computer files with this one. With luck, Two Bears has an address book we can use. We'll call everyone our victims knew in common." Tracy came around and looked at the blank computer screen then down toward the body on the floor. "I wonder what the heck the killer is up to." Nick said, "He's picking them off, one by one." << ------- 9. Chapter Saffron Walden August 1572Z Jenny with her back to the kitchen door, held her pitcher of beer and listened to the conversation around the high table. She tried not to laugh outright. "John is well peeved and I understate it. I apologize, Father, that I was not here today. You might have put off some of the hard work until tomorrow. There was no reason to exhaust yourself." "I enjoyed myself. Are you thinking of putting me out to pasture? I shall not complain, boy, if, for the pleasure of our fair neighbors, I am to be offered up to improve the quality of their stock." The company at the high table joined in laughter. Mister Edmund's wife, Agnes, hid her face behind her hands in a sham of mortification. Jenny was glad that the mister and mistress were in good spirits now that their son, Jeffrey, had returned from Colchester. The strange gentleman who was their guest for the next fortnight, Monsieur de Brabant, leaned on his elbows and toyed with his knife. "Of course not," said Mister Jeffrey, "I just think it foolish." Again laughter. Jenny giggled, lifting the pitcher high to hide her face. "So now I am foolish and decrepit." Mister Jeffrey choked on the bird he had just put into his mouth. His mother shook a finger at him and encouraged mischievously, "Do not suffer this old braggart. We would not fetch one penny for his services." "Mistress, I beg to differ. Have you some complaint? Why speak you not sooner?" Mister Edmund opened his mouth and eyes wide exhibiting his shock and consternation to the assemblage with all the drama he could summon. "Aye, Sir, in these thirty-five years, there has not been in it a silence of sufficient length for me to make complaint." "Woman, I am wounded deep." Mister Jeffrey rapped his spoon on the table several times. "Father, be done with the endless wooing. You won the woman already. What of Skipwith?" Jenny imagined how the young mister would look on his upcoming wedding day. The Mister and Mistress' only living child was an attractive young man. He had his mother's green eyes and dark black hair, but his face was much like his father's. He was tall and shared the slender, sturdy figure of the Mister. He was like a brother to Jenny and she was glad he had come home. His face was slightly flushed from enjoying the lively company of his parents. "I thought he was content with his situation," continued Mister Jeffrey. "I thought as much. I am in no hurry to find another boy," responded a subdued Mister Edmund. "John is uncommon fond of him and I say if the boy were