The Widening Gyre Read online

  Zach saw Rakel out of the corner of his eye; after all, she was hard to miss. She saw him at the same time, and before Zach could look away, she leaned over to the guy next to her and whispered something in his ear.

  Rakel was smiling, and for a second Zach imagined she was saying something harmless like “Hey, I work with that guy,” but it wasn’t a friendly smile. The big guy looked at Zach and laughed. He made a cutting motion with one of his hands over his left wrist.

  Zach felt his stomach sink. He wanted to run away, get in his car, and go back to the safety of his house. Somehow, Rakel had discovered his secret.

  If he left now, Zach knew, he probably wouldn’t ever go out again. Coming here tonight had taken a lot of courage on his part, and he decided to stay. He looked away from Rakel and the guy and continued toward the back of the house. It was a small victory, but a victory just the same.

  When Zach rounded the corner of the living room and entered the kitchen, what he saw next stopped him dead in his tracks.

  He was no longer in the kitchen. The music—and the people—were gone. He was in a house, but not the Van Pelts’. It was another place.

  He was losing it again, in a house full of people, but didn’t feel the panic he thought he should be feeling. Instead, he felt a calmness and serenity he’d never felt before. This place—this house—was familiar. Looking around the room, Zach was shocked to find he recognized the furnishings. The chairs, the tables, even the carpet stain next to the leather recliner. I remember when that happened, Zach thought. But how could I?

  The walls of the room were painted an eggshell white. Delicate lace curtains swayed gently with the breeze coming through the open windows. Outside, Zach could see green grass, leafy trees, and an incredibly blue sky. It wasn’t winter. The breeze carried the scent of lilacs. Lilacs were her favorite, Zach thought, not quite understanding how he knew that, or for that matter, who “she” was.

  Zach was confused, but he didn’t want to leave this place. He belonged here.

  The stereo boomed, and Zach was startled by its intensity. He closed his eyes tightly, shook his head, and found himself back in the Van Pelts’ kitchen. He nervously looked at the people around him, expecting them to be staring, but to his relief it seemed as though no one had noticed his momentary confusion. Zach took a deep breath . . .

  And then he saw her, standing at the far end of the kitchen. She was staring at him.

  Zach couldn’t look away. He’d seen those eyes before.

  *

  Peyton didn’t immediately notice the person entering the kitchen just a few feet from where she was standing, but felt an uncontrollable urge to look up at him. When she did, her world stood still.

  Peyton was suddenly somewhere else, not the Van Pelts’ kitchen but an entirely different house. It was . . . home? But it wasn’t her home, was it? It felt so familiar. She was overcome with a sense of inner peace and contentment like none she had ever felt before, even when she was a little girl. This was a beautiful place, a happy place that she loved. The surroundings all brought memories back to her, memories she couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

  And then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the house was gone.

  She was back in the Van Pelts’ kitchen, staring into the face of a boy she didn’t know but had seen before. She gazed into his eyes, and couldn’t look away.

  “Peyton?” It was Dezi. “Peyton!” Louder this time.

  Peyton reluctantly looked away from the boy across the kitchen and turned toward her friend. Dezi was holding her cell phone, and her eyes were wide, bright with fear. “Dez, what’s the matter?” Peyton asked.

  “My mom called,” Dezi said flatly. “She said there’s something on the news.” She paused. “We need to get out of here.” She took Peyton by the arm and pulled her toward the front door.

  “Wait a minute,” Peyton said, trying to look back at the boy. “I don’t want to leave.” Dezi only pulled harder. “Dez, stop. What’s wrong?”

  “Something happened at your house. It’s all over the news. We’re going to my house right now.”

  *

  Zach watched her leave, dragged away by another girl. He wanted to follow, to step in and stop her, but he was so struck by what he’d felt when he looked into her eyes, he could barely think.

  He didn’t know who she was, but she looked so familiar . . . and then he remembered. Zach had to find her, because she was the girl, the one from his dream. He ran from the kitchen and pushed his way through the throng of people toward the front door.

  From across the living room, a teenage vixen in red heels was watching.

  *

  Rakel leaned against Greg and said, “Looks like razor boy has had enough social interaction for one night.”

  “What a fucking loser,” Greg said, as they both watched Zach walk out the front door. Greg was way past the buzzed stage, and was very drunk. “Doesn’t it freak you out to work with somebody who tried to fucking kill himself?”

  “Sometimes,” Rakel said, in a scared little voice. “I mean, I’ll be working, and I’ll look up and he’ll be staring at me, like he’s thinking about seeing me naked or something.” It was a lie, but Rakel enjoyed watching guys get worked up over her. She was good at it, too.

  “That little bastard,” Greg growled. “I should kick his ass.”

  Rakel continued her little lie. “I don’t think he’d actually try to do anything, but he makes me nervous.” She looked up at him with her best innocent puppy-dog eyes. She could be an actress someday if she really wanted to, even without having to screw a producer or two to get what she wanted. She could do it with her eyes alone.

  Greg took another shot. He’d switched to vodka. “If he even tries to touch you, I’ll take another razor to his fucking cock. Who the hell invited him anyway? He should be locked up in a fucking nuthouse.” Greg swayed as the alcohol wreaked havoc with his sense of balance.

  Rakel leaned into him, being sure to press her breast against his arm. Her nipples were hard, and she made sure he could feel it. “I love it when you’re angry.”

  *

  Zach swung the front door open and stepped outside. There was no sign of the girl, or her friend. He was too late. He had to find out who she was. Randy would know.

  Zach went back into the house and quickly made his way toward the back porch.

  *

  Rakel’s little act had worked. Greg was all over her.

  From her horizontal position on the couch, Rakel saw Zach walk back through the living room. Greg saw Zach, too. He raised himself partway off the couch and wiped a clinging string of saliva from his mouth with the back of his hand.

  *

  Zach stepped out back. Randy and a few other people were at the far end of the redwood patio, standing underneath a cloud of blue cigar smoke.

  “Hey, Zach, ’bout time you got out here.” Randy flicked the ashes from the end of his cigar. Small sparks glowed bright orange and then faded to black as the small lump of ash hit the redwood boards. “Guys, this is Zach Regan. We work over at—”

  “Randy,” Zach interrupted. “I need to ask you something.”

  “Uh, okay. What’s up?”

  “There was a girl here tonight who just left. I need to know who she is.”

  “A girl?”

  “She was about five-foot-four, brown hair, blue eyes. Really blue eyes.” Zach had to think hard to remember what she’d been wearing. “Blue jeans, black boots, a green sweater . . .”

  Randy stared at him. It was obvious Zach’s description wasn’t ringing a bell.

  “She left with another girl,” Zach remembered. “She was black, about the same height. She had a sweatshirt that said something on the front but I couldn’t tell what it said.”

  Randy’s face brightened, and he nodded. “Dezi Williams. She’s kinda cute, but she’s clingy as hell—”

  Zach interrupted again. “Do you know who she was with?”

  Randy thought
for a second. “Dezi usually hangs out with Peyton Sayre. From what you said, your girl sounds like her.”

  “Thanks, Randy,” Zach said, and was about to turn and leave when Randy grabbed his arm and leaned in close.

  “Dude, I don’t know Peyton, but I heard she totally freaked out at school today. Kurt said she screamed and then passed out or something. You might want to—”

  Zach watched Randy shift his eyes, focusing on something behind.

  A sledgehammer blow struck Zach between his shoulder blades, and sent him tumbling across the deck. Someone had shoved him, hard.

  The backyard was suddenly quiet. Zach rolled over and looked up. A group of people were standing in a semicircle, some of whom he recognized from the living room. At the center of the group, he saw the guy Rakel had been with, the one she’d whispered to. From Zach’s vantage point, he looked like a giant. He also looked pissed. Zach tasted blood from a cut on his lip.

  “Jesus Christ, Greg, what the hell did you do that for?” Randy yelled.

  “Stay out of this, Randy.” Greg turned his gaze toward Zach, still sprawled on the deck, and said, “This psycho bastard needs to get the hell out of here before he pulls out his favorite razor and starts cutting people.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Randy said. “Dude, you need to calm down. You’re hammered.”

  “He cut himself with fucking razor blades,” Greg shouted. “Crazy bastard tried to kill himself once.”

  Zach couldn’t believe what was happening. He could feel himself sinking back down to that old familiar place.

  Get up.

  The voice. The same voice he’d heard in his room.

  Get up. Defend yourself. You’re going to grow up and be a man, right now. Don’t let the bastard win.

  The voice that had so terrified and confused him now suddenly became a source of strength. Zach felt like a completely different person. Self-assured, unafraid.

  Zach stood and wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Greg’s voice boomed like thunder. “Now get the fuck out of here before I finish what I started. And make sure you leave Rakel alone. You touch her, and I’ll break your neck.”

  Zach felt a flush of confidence come over him, a cocky swagger. It felt good, too. When he spoke, it sounded like his voice, but he felt as if someone else were speaking. “Touch Rakel Anders?” Zach said, laughing. “You’re kidding, right? I wouldn’t touch her if you paid me.” The next words surprised him even more. “I don’t touch whores like Rakel Anders.”

  Zach watched, satisfied, as Rakel’s mocking smirk quickly faded, replaced by a look of utter shock.

  It took a few seconds for Greg to realize what Zach had said. It wasn’t often that a person of Zach’s stature stood up to him. Actually, never would be more accurate. “What did you say?”

  Zach’s confidence was unwavering. He spoke slowly and clearly. “I said, Rakel Anders is a whore. Did you hear me this time, or do I need to write it down for you?” Zach didn’t know where the words were coming from, but he wasn’t afraid to speak them. He wasn’t afraid of anything at that moment.

  Get ready, the voice whispered to him.

  “I’m gonna kick your ass!” Greg shouted, and launched himself at Zach.

  Zach was smaller, but he was quicker. He also had one important advantage: He wasn’t drunk. Zach quickly stepped aside and landed a quick open-handed chop to the back of Greg’s neck as he passed. Greg tumbled to the deck.

  Zach stared at his hand, amazed at what he’d just done.

  Greg was stunned, but not for long. He began to pick himself up, but was floored again by a powerful kick to the ribs. He rolled to his side and moaned loudly.

  Zach was having fun. “You know, if you’re gonna kick my ass, you’ll need to at least get up first.” This time, he let Greg get to his feet.

  Greg raised his fists and took a boxer’s stance. “Now I’m up, you little bastard. Come on.”

  Zach raised his fists and stepped within range. Greg’s first punch was predictable and not very accurate. Zach heard the rush of air as the large meaty fist flew by his head. He took the opening and countered with a solid left to the jaw, followed by a quick right to the ribs. As Greg doubled over, Zach connected again with a solid right uppercut. There was a loud crunch as Greg’s nose shattered.

  Clark Stebbins wasn’t about to let his buddy get his ass kicked by some scrawny little psycho. He swung the baseball bat hard, smacking the back of Zach’s head with a loud metallic clang.

  PART III

  SOMETHING WICKED . . .

  10

  Omaha Police detective Jim Taggart stood in the living room of an unfamiliar house and stared at two unidentified bodies. The scene was all too familiar.

  He let out a long, heavy sigh and ran his thick fingers through his graying hair. He had seen some bad things during his twenty years, things that spoke to him in the wee hours of the night, whispering little reminders of horrors he would never forget. He wouldn’t forget this one, either.

  The coppery smell of blood mixed with the pungent tang of violent death was overpowering—the urge to cover his mouth with his handkerchief was hard to suppress. Even after being exposed to crime scenes like this so many times before, the smell was something a decent human being never got used to.

  This was his job, though. And he was good at it.

  One glance at the inside of the house—apart from the bloody, ruined bodies—told him a great deal about who these people were, and how they lived. Dirty walls. Unwashed dishes piled in the sink. Carpet worn and dirty in the traffic areas where they walked. Every surface covered with a film of dust. General clutter and neglect.

  Nobody cared in this house, and they hadn’t for a long time.

  “Detective?”

  “Yeah, Wilson?” Taggart was surprised at how tired his own voice sounded. Murders, especially the bad ones, seemed to sap all his energy. He was definitely over the hill now, and beginning to lose the battle with his waistline, but considered himself to be in relatively decent shape. Standing over six feet tall, with a barrel chest and strong arms from years of hitting the weights when he was young, Taggart still struck an imposing figure. But crime scenes like this—too many to count over his career—drained a little bit of his soul each time he waded into the breach. He supposed he looked as tired as he sounded.

  “Female is Amber Sayre, forty-six,” Officer Wilson said. “Looks like she took a shot to the stomach while she was on the couch, and tried to crawl away before he shot her again.”

  Taggart saw a bloody smear on the floor heading from the couch toward the kitchen, ending at the woman’s lifeless body. The second shot, obviously taken at a very close range, had taken most of her head. He saw bruises, old ones, covering her arms.

  It never ceased to amaze him. People seemed so concerned when animals were abused or neglected—they would go to the ends of the earth to protect some neurotic little frog that might tremble itself into extinction if a bulldozer came within fifty miles—but retained the barbaric ability to butcher each other without a second thought.

  Officer Wilson continued. “Male is Larry Sayre, forty-eight. Looks like he did his wife, then himself.”

  Larry Sayre’s body lay propped against the hallway wall, a shotgun on the floor between his legs. His face was gone. The wall behind him was covered in gore.

  “Neighbors say there’s a daughter, too. Peyton Sayre, age seventeen. We haven’t located her yet.”

  “Great.” Taggart sighed. “Keep on it. I don’t want her to find out what happened by showing up at the door.” Or by seeing it on the news. The reporters were already circling outside the house, like sharks drawn to blood in the water.

  “Got it.” Wilson nodded and left to start the search.

  Taggart walked outside into the cold night air and took a deep, cleansing breath, trying to get the crime scene stink out of his lungs. He knew it would still be clinging to his clothes wh
en he got home.

  As soon as we find the daughter, we can close the case and—

  The daughter.

  Something didn’t feel right. He took another deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to clear his thoughts. The evidence he’d seen was clear-cut—murder-suicide—but was there more to it? Was he missing something? The gnawing in his gut told him yes. This case hadn’t ended with a couple of shotgun blasts.

  He looked up into the night sky; it had never looked so black to him before, so cold and lifeless. Even the stars seemed to have lost their brilliance. As he casually gazed eastward, mentally calculating how little sleep he would get before the sun came up, a prickle of dread suddenly crawled across his skin. He sensed something out there, beyond the horizon. Coming for . . . her?

  He was tired, that’s all it was. Damned tired. The frozen lawn crunched under his shoes as he walked back to his car.

  *

  The Traveler looked out the window of the Boeing 757 at the world below. Flying was not one of his favorite pastimes, but sometimes it couldn’t be avoided. The only bonus was the opportunity to meet some of the most interesting people, like the cute little redhead flight attendant who was obviously taken with his good looks and English charms. Yes, definitely a bonus.

  As she passed by his first class seat, gently brushing her hip against his shoulder, he said, “Excuse me, could I bother you for another Scotch and soda?” His English accent was fine bait for this one. “I’m afraid I’m quite dry.”

  She stopped and turned, leaning over just far enough to provide an unobstructed view down the front of her blouse. It was a well-practiced move. “Sure. I’ll be right back, hon.”

  He could see the dark aura around her left ring finger. Ah, divorced? A few too many post-flight trysts with unfamiliar faces can do the most terrible things to a marriage. He watched her walk away down the aisle. She’ll look absolutely splendid in a dumpster.

  He had used this man once before, years ago, when it had been another flight attendant in another dumpster. This time, he would let him get caught, for he had a special place waiting for this particular gentleman, and it was time to fill it.