The door gave way and he took the steps two at a time, entered a small room next to the master bedroom, and slid aside the picture that covered the peephole. He pushed the button to begin the recording equipment. Before leaving the room, he gazed once around the room at the walls lined with bookcases that held his collection of videos. He paused at the pictures he'd tacked up on the opposite wall. Their lurid colors stood out in the drab room. He smiled in satisfaction and snapped both locks in place as he exited. Then he moved on to the master bedroom.
First, he adjusted the camera hidden in the top shelf of the armoire. The red light near the lens glowed like the single eye of a Cyclops, but when he closed the door, he saw it wasn't noticeable from the bed. He divested the bed of its pillows and jerked back the duvet, revealing satin sheets in a rich crimson hue. He lighted candles around the room. Perfect.
When everything was arranged to his standards, he returned to the car where the girl was just beginning to rouse from her stupor. "Hey, baby," he whispered as he half lifted, half dragged her out of the car. "Are you ready for our exciting night?"
He slung her over his shoulder and carried her into the house, slammed the front door, and carried her up the stairs. The girl's body made a light load since he made a point of working out every day at the university gym. As he positioned her on the bed, he glanced over his shoulder at the camera, at the peephole. The idea of any kind of audience aroused him.
The girl's eyes opened, wide green orbs fringed with thick lashes. Her skin was freckled and her cheeks were flushed. She smiled prettily up at him. "Oh, hi, are we there yet?"
She slowly batted her eyelids, and he realized she was still under the effects of the drink. Good. Rohypnol was his favored choice, but tonight the brandy had worked very effectively. He smiled as he slipped the straps of her dress off her shoulder. A drink of brandy for a girl named Brandy.
How fitting.
Olivia had felt an uneasiness she couldn't shake off since she returned home. Silly, but she sensed someone was watching her, possibly following her. She told herself it was nonsense prompted by Howard Randolph's poorly disguised snooping, coupled with Ted Burrows and her new awareness of his slick familiarity. The professor and his assistant were quite a pair, apparently two of a kind.
Driving home, she remembered what Keisha had said the day she disappeared. Her student had hinted that she was involved with someone who worked for the university. An older man? A completely inappropriate liaison? Howard had been sly in his aspersions on the girl's character. Ted Burrows was a well-known Casanova, with quite a reputation around campus. As ludicrous as it sounded, could either man have been her secret lover? Olivia had thought Keisha was – had been, she corrected herself – a level-headed young woman with clear goals and long-range plans. Was it possible that she never really knew her student?
Could either Howard Randolph or Ted Burrows have anything to do with Keisha's disappearance? Did that mean either man could be the Dead Language Killer? Impossible. The enormity of that implication overwhelmed her. Professor. Teaching Assistant. She thought of the two of them in her office today, the undercurrent of secrecy. She remembered how Howard had studiously avoided Keisha whenever she visited Olivia. How Ted enjoyed adding young coed after coed to his stable of girls.
When Olivia arrived home, the house looked forlornly empty. She punched play on her answering machine. Nothing. Where had Jack gone? What was he doing? She wanted to know more about what had happened after Invictus snatched him away all those years ago. She wanted him to convince her that he could do what he claimed.
According to Jack, he possessed extraordinary abilities that sounded like throw-backs to a primitive state. His senses heightened – like a steroid freak on PCP. His increased strength and size probably intensified when he worked on a case. But he hadn't told her the how of it. What gave him these powers?
Jack had hinted at dreams that presaged events. Was that how he hunted the killers in a case? By tracking them like an animal? By invading their minds? What a nightmare to walk through the mind of a man like the Dead Language killer. Feel his warped lusts, share his twisted thoughts. What kind of government entity would subject someone to such a waking nightmare? How could Jack survive such intimate connection with evil
What was Invictus really about?
Olivia ate, cleared the dishes, and showered before setting to work on the Latin notes. Although she had no idea what they meant in relation to the deaths, she was beginning to believe they were related to the victims themselves. She ran her fingers over the array of reference books on the library shelf, considering the volumes at her disposal. A slim volume at the end caught her attention: Ancient Methods of Execution by a little-known writer named Thomas G. Hornbower. The man wasn't a serious scholar, but the title gave her pause. Ancient methods of execution.
She flipped open her copy of the DLK file. Four murders, all bizarre methods of death. Riffling through the book's index, she found the usual topics. Christian martyrs, Nero's excesses, gladiators, vestal virgins. Vestal virgins. She searched her memory before finding the chapter about these ancient women who took vows of chastity for life. At the end she found what she was looking for.
Their punishment for breaking their vows of chastity was being buried alive.
Unlike the DLK's victims, the vestals were encased in a crypt and given bread and water, but eventually died of starvation. In the killer's mind were the victims who were buried alive similar to these ancient vestals? She had to take this information to the team. Tomorrow, she thought, feeling a headache coming on.
Relaxing with a glass of cabernet, she leaned against the desk, her mind whirling with ideas. Without warning, a noise at the back of the house roused her from her reverie. The sharp rapping on the glassed window of the back door. Jack! In her hurry she attempted to set the wine glass on the desk, but knocked it off, watching sightlessly for a second as the red stain beaded up in tiny bubbles on the carpet. Ignoring the spill, she hurried to the kitchen. Eagerly, she flung open the back door without thinking.
Her brain had less than a split second to register that it wasn't Jack who stood there waiting for her. A bright light and the shadowy form of a stocky figure that loomed on her back porch steps froze her to the spot. Before she could react, an unexpected blow landed to the side of her head. And then her brain shut down.
When the lysergic cocktail of the red pills kicked in and Jack's sensory perceptions heightened, the vision he'd waited for burst from his mind's quiet like a hurricane. The storm in his head belched gales of images that whipped through his brain like fallen power lines.
He tossed restlessly in his bedroll, his body slick and sour with a rank sweat. As he slinked through the enemy's mind, invading his thoughts, Jack saw the sudden jerking of a head as if the prey sensed his thoughts had been invaded. That someone else shared his dark desires.
With a harsh gasp and a sharp stab behind his eyes, Jack wrenched back into consciousness. Except for the heavy rasp of his breathing, the night air was hushed. The cold ashes of his fire told him several hours had passed. He listened intently for the sounds of animal and insect life. The quiet chatter of noises undetectable by human ears broke the night's tranquility.