“She can’t remember anything other than that she thinks she was attacked in the parking lot of her apartment complex.”
“She thinks she was attacked?”
“She appears to be suffering from anterograde amnesia. Possibly drug induced.”
“Yeah, that actually fits.” Charlee nodded as she spoke, her mood darkening even more as the conversation progressed. “Blood test?”
“Of course. We’ll screen for Benzodiazepines. Rohypnol, GHB, etcetera.”
They came to a stop outside the door of the treatment room.
“This’ll probably sound strange, but how about hickeys? She have any of those?”
“Actually, yes, there are a few large hematoma on her neck,” he answered with a hint of surprise.
“I was afraid of that. Okay, let me see if I can bat a thousand here,” she continued. “This woman is in her early to mid-thirties, petite, and blonde-Am I right?”
“Of course, but don’t try to tell me that you are psychic, Detective,” the doctor returned. “We gave all of that information when we called it in.”
“Yeah, well that information is exactly why I’m here instead of a uniform.”
The significance behind Charlee’s comment was in no way lost on the doctor. He acknowledged it with a simple nod and a query of his own, “Serial rapist?”
“You didn’t hear that from me. Not yet, anyway, but let’s just say I’ve got two case files just like it on my desk right now. In my book, two makes it a suspicious coincidence. Three makes it a pattern.”
“I see,” he nodded thoughtfully and motioned to the door. “Well, she’s in here. If you need anything else you can have the nurse page me.”
“Hey, Doc,” she addressed him as he turned to go.
“Yes, Detective?”
“You going past a restroom or a sink?”
“Most likely, why?”
Charlee held out the almost full cup of chai latte to him. “Do me a favor and dump this crap, will’ya?”
CHAPTER 1
Overwhelming violation saturated my very being. I hated the feeling, but I clung to it like a piece of flotsam in a raging flood because it was very simply all I had to keep me afloat.
Waking up in a cold sweat seemed to be the norm for me as of late. When it first started, it had only been once every few days, maybe twice at most. Now it was rare for a week to pass without it happening three or even four times. Recently I’d even had an incident where it occurred twice in one night. The lack of a decent night’s rest was taking a measurable toll, and I was definitely feeling the effects.
More often than not I spent my waking hours on autopilot, fueled by bitter coffee and an almost constant, insatiable desire for a cigarette. Considering that I’d quit smoking-well, except for an occasional cigar-somewhat over a year ago, I found the craving more than a bit unusual. Thus far, I’d managed to keep it in check with nicotine gum, but I wasn’t sure how long that would last. The need was beginning to achieve absolutely ridiculous proportions.
Of course, one could easily imagine that after surviving a run-in with a crazed serial killer, nightmares would be expected. The problem was that I’m not exactly sure you could call these events nightmares; this is not to mention the fact that they hadn’t even begun until several months after the fact. On top of that, the episodes weren’t about my brush with death at all. At least I don’t think they were.
To tell the truth, I couldn’t really be certain what they were about.
The bald facts were that I would wake up in a cold sweat with my heart pounding in a furious attempt to escape the confines of my chest. My mind would be a jumble of nothingness, and I would be incapable of pinning down a single thought. That, in and of itself, brought on sudden panic. I had always been very cognizant of my dreams and night terrors, remembering them in vivid detail. It went way beyond troubling for me to suddenly be devoid of that clarity.
And then there was this inexplicable feeling of violation.
All of it together was bad enough, but there was something even worse happening-I wasn’t always waking up in my bed. Sometimes I would find myself sprawled on the living room floor. Other times, it might be the kitchen. One time, I had even awakened lying next to my truck on the cold concrete of my garage. I can personally guarantee you that is definitely not a place you want to find yourself half-naked in the middle of winter.
I think perhaps that was the incident that frightened me most. Upon gathering my wits, I had even felt the hood of the truck to see if it was warm. It wasn’t, but it hadn’t really meant much since I had no clue how long I’d been lying there. For all I knew, the truck could have had plenty of time to cool down. Of course, as cold as it was, I wasn’t suffering from hypothermia, so my only assumption could be that it really hadn’t been for very long. The only thing that finally quelled my panic to any extent, however, was the fact that the fuel gauge hadn’t appeared to have budged. So most likely I hadn’t been driving in my sleep, but if I had, then at least I hadn’t gone far. Still, the not knowing was a threatening cloud that had been hanging over me ever since.
Other than the sensation of debasement, there was one constant in all this I was able to grasp, that being no matter where I awoke it was always with a very particular sort of pain. It was always localized, though not always in the same place. Sometimes it would be in my side, sometimes my back. Another time it had been on my shoulder. Wherever it occurred on my body though, it was always the same savage burning sensation. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, depending on your point of view, it would always fade away within a handful of minutes and there would be no visible evidence with which to identify its cause.
The fear and panic brought on by all these constants was a different story. They took quite a bit longer to subside.
So far, I’d managed to keep these incidents to myself while I tried to figure out just what they were all about. However, the increased frequency was making them much harder to keep a secret. Unfortunately, my wife was bound to find out soon, and she wouldn’t be happy about it. She knew as well as I that when these kinds of things started happening to a Witch- especially me -something beyond terrible was about to make itself known in spades.
And as usual, I was going to be right in the middle of it.
Either that or I was finally going completely insane. Given my recent history, I had to wonder if that might be the preferable option.
As neighborhood diners go, Charlie’s Eats at the corner of Seventh and Chouteau was just about as boilerplate as you could get. Housed in the renovated and whitewashed cinder block remnants of a long-closed gasoline station, Chuck’s, as it was affectionately labeled by the regular patrons, was busy 24/7. Being located well within the Saint Louis city limits and not terribly far from police headquarters, it was also a regular hangout for cops. There were two favorites, Chuck’s, and Forty, which was directly across the street from headquarters. Word among the cops I knew was that Forty was the place for a quick sandwich or greasy burger. Chuck’s was where you wanted to go for something served on a plate-and to flirt with the waitress.
Whatever the case, time of day wasn’t even a factor, as the greasy spoon never seemed to be at a lack for a uniform at the counter or occupying a booth. Whether it was one officer or several coming off duty or just taking a meal break, there was always a blue shirt nearby. The small parking lot even had a pair of spaces reserved just for city police cruisers.
I took a quick right from Seventh Avenue into the entrance of the lot and then slowly cajoled my truck between the rear end of an old station wagon and a slightly canted utility pole. As I tucked my vehicle into the first available space, the sun was just beginning to peek up over the jagged horizon that was East Saint Louis, Illinois. Now that it was filtering across the Mississippi river in a glittery band, it momentarily bathed the city in that indefinable yellow-orange glow that immediately precedes the actual dawn of the day. The eerie kind of color that occurs only in nature, and then, fleetingly-a shade of the light spectrum that will never be found in a box of crayons nor be captured in exactness by any artist, no matter how talented.