I’m hyperaware of how his heated gaze drags over me, stopping on the pendant around my neck.
“Every sigil is personal,” he says, “and I find permanently etching my most coveted desires into my skin satisfying. It helps with the unhealthy cravings.”
The air charges between us. The psychologist in me wants to probe further, to uncover the desires he obsesses over and how much control they harbor over his actions. Whether or not those sigils parallel with the Harbinger killings, and if he forced himself to “purge” his actions once carried out.
I hold Kallum’s intense stare, sensing a dare, a challenge—but knowing I was shutout the moment I tried to push at the crime scene.
He covers his mouth as he leans on his hand. “It also helps curb envy in the academic realm, knowing you have an edge over your rivals. Put your wants, your aspirations, even your fears, into the sigil, then release it. Far healthier than spite.”
Suppressing my own desires for the truth for how that spite ended in his rival’s murder, I change course. “You answered my question.”
“But you have more.”
“I know you have some initial theory on the hemlock. I’d really like to hear it.”
He drapes his arm over the seat back. “At the first scene—what we assume is his exhibit—it’s not about the shocking display of dissected eyes. The symbolism is not art, or representation.”
“But it was important enough that he arrange them precisely.”
“Precision…perhaps. I’ll leave the psychological profiling to your expertise. I’m more interested in the number. Three trees. Three rows of thirty-three sacrifices. Three, three, three. Do you see the pattern?”
“The perpetrator likes the number three. So what…an OCD tic?”
He shakes his head slightly, his dark hair drifting over his forehead. “You’re thinking too much like a psychologist. Think like a criminologist. You know, that career you gave up major accolades for.”
“This isn’t a test, Professor Locke. You’re not here to quiz me.”
He licks his lips, dragging his tongue between the seam of his mouth as his invasive gaze pushes against me. “Three is the sacred number. Three is the triad, the trinity. The beginning, the middle, the end. Body, mind, spirit.” He cocks his head. “Every civilization, every religious sect has some reference to the number three. Not to mention, just about every secret society.”
A strange awareness crashes over me as he says this last part, some element of the crime scene trying to link together. I look down at the table, letting my thoughts drift.
“Secret society…hemlock…” I say aloud, attempting to fit the puzzle pieces together.
“Good girl,” he says. “There are a few societies, some public, some hidden, that mention the insane root. But I think what you’ll find is your guy is very much hidden. Let’s try out your favorite research tool. Google ‘hemlock,’ and see what fascinating details pull up.”
With a resigned breath, I flip my phone over and, swiping away the many messages, perform the search. A description with an image of the plant pops up, and as I scroll farther down the page, I see a familiar name.
“Socrates.” I blow out a puff of frustration. Kallum stated the answer already with his vague wisdom quote earlier. “Why do you find it difficult to say things clearly?” I set my phone on the table and look at him expectantly.
A gleam flashes behind his eyes, and he smiles. “How is that any fun?”
“None of this is fun.”
“Then why do you do it?”
At my obvious loss of patience, he concedes. “Hemlock and Socrates go together like small-town USA and apple pie. Ironically, I think, in this case.”
I rub my forehead. “Shit. I’ve already fallen down this research hole once. Socrates, Plato, Aristotle…”
“But that was before you acquired my services,” he says. “The philosophers of Western esotericism. There are others, of course, but all schools of thought circle back to the three masters.”
“Explain it to me clearly, without veering off on tangents with pantheons and mythology. Just the historical facts.” I finally succeed in gaining the waitress’s attention and ask for the check as Kallum delves into the details.
Apparently, Socrates was tried in ancient Athens for moral corruption of youths and impiety—that is, sacrilege against the gods. The charge claimed he tried to introduce new deities into society, and this has always been deemed blasphemous across most religions.
Found guilty on both counts, the jury sentenced Socrates to death by execution, where he was forced to commit suicide by drinking a hemlock concoction.
“I could expound for days just on Greek philosophy alone but,” he says, “as you’ve so adamantly declared, you don’t have days. And I’m guessing the cliff notes version won’t impress the feds.”
“Can you surmise it in one word? Just…give me some base to stand on.”
His smile stretches, making a slight dimple pop in his cheek. It’s a cruel sight.
“Nietzsche,” he declares.
By the time I’ve paid for Kallum’s dinner on my company credit card and we exit the diner, the sun has completely set on the town. The chirr of crickets are too noticeable with the lack of vehicles on the road.
The street lights glow against a black, moonless night sky, illuminating the stretch of sidewalk. As I start toward the hotel, Kallum turns back toward the diner.
“I forgot something,” he says.
“You don’t have anything.”
While the agents watch Kallum, I light my phone screen and scroll through the missed calls and texts from Aubrey. I frown at the device. I don’t remember turning my ringer off.
Kallum returns wearing a sexy grin, his ego on full display. “Let’s walk,” he says. He glances back at the agents before he slips a folded piece of paper into my hand. “I agree with your assessment that this town’s guard is too high, that we need a stealthier approach.”
“That’s not how I worded it.”
“And then I remembered… I’m a college professor.”
I discretely unfold the note. It’s an address with a girl’s name: Tabitha.
“Kids use any excuse to party,” Kallum says. “Especially tragedies. This town needs a lubricant, and a party full of young, gossiping locals might reveal some insight.”
I raise an eyebrow, admittedly impressed. “How? She wouldn’t even ask if we needed refills.”
Kallum turns smoldering eyes on me. “I winked and showed her my ankle monitor.”
I stop walking. As Kallum turns my way, I stare at him, look deep into the beautiful blue-and-green of his eyes that wound as sharply as they captivate. Suspicion crowds the small span of air between us, and I question his true motivation for helping.
“Be careful,” he says as he dips close. His warm breath fans my lips, and my own breathing shallows. “You know what Nietzsche said about staring into abysses.”
He backs away, leaving me with the lingering sensation over my lips. As I watch him walk off, I finally inhale.
The abyss looked at me the day Kallum first laid eyes on me and, if I’m not careful, he’ll pull me right into the pitch-black void of his soul.
OceanofPDF.com
8
Divine Madness
Kallum
A rapid knock jars me from sleep.
My first thoughts are groggy and laced with violent tendencies toward nurses, until my eyes adjust to the dim light bathing a foreign room.
The frantic knock sounds again. I drag my body out of the hotel-room bed and pull on a T-shirt. As I swing the door open, I find little Halen on the other side.
She’s wearing tight black leggings and a long-sleeved, fitted nightshirt—one that makes it painfully evident there’s no bra beneath. My gaze lingers on the enticing oval outline of her nipples a moment too long before I find her face.
