I’m off the cot and in front of him before the rookie can make a move to restrain me. I have Dr. Verlice backed against the wall, my hand clamped around his throat.
“I won’t be leaving this case.” My voice drops to a lethal decimal. “Which means, we’ll be roomies again real soon.” I smile, my eyes drilling into his as he trembles. “And you saw how quick it can happen. They’ll never even hear your neck snap.”
The agent grabs my wrist, but not before I’m able to retrieve a necessary item from Stoll’s jacket inseam. I allow the agent to remove my grip on Stoll and, as I back away, I lift my chin, my features carved in stone.
I keep my gaze aimed on the quivering doctor, waiting to see what he decides.
He touches his throat and coughs, but it’s the wet mark pooling on the front of his slacks that makes me smile.
I glance over at the agent, then look at Stoll. “No one has to know,” I say to him.
Humiliation blisters his face. Hurriedly grabbing his binders, he covers himself before he rushes from the room.
Smart choice.
I then look at the young agent, who is suddenly aware we’re now alone. “Take me to the guy who thinks he’s in charge.”
The briefing is still underway when Agent Training Pants leads me into a room full of suited feds and team leaders from the local departments. A giant whiteboard is covered in a distressing amount of false information.
As I pan the space, I recognize Detective Emmons, the crime-scene analyst Devyn, and the two generic feds that have been shadowing me since I arrived.
Then my gaze lands on Halen.
She’s seated in the back, out of sight, hidden away. As if she’s already distanced herself from the case.
Agent Alister stops mid-sentence to look at me, his face bracketed in sharp angles to stress his annoyance. When Halen glances up at the interruption, she’s all I see—and I discern what’s sheltered behind her twisted uncertainty.
Fear and lust.
The two most powerful, primitive emotions.
She hasn’t had much sleep, as evident by the dark blotches under her widened hazel eyes. Temptation tenses my muscles, making it painful to simply stand here, when the urge to gather her in my arms and take her straight to bed is so damn demanding.
“Locke.” It’s Alister’s displeased tone of voice that steals my attention away from her. “This meeting is for officials only. I’ll deal with you momentarily.”
Deal with me . A smirk slants my face at his condescending reprimand, and I tic my head in the direction of the whiteboard. “Satanic practices,” I say, the sardonic question implied.
Alister casts a look at the board, then crosses his arms over his shoulder harness as he faces me fully. “Do you have something relevant to say, Locke? Something helpful? Because, as far as I’ve seen, none of your expertise has been particularly useful. In fact, since my team was able to interpret the symbols without the need of your expertise —” the derision in his voice, by gods “—the FBI is no longer in need of your or Miss St. James’s services.” He directs his attention on the agent beside me. “Remove him from the room.”
The agent hesitates, giving me time to call Halen out of the shadows. “Do you agree with this bullshit, Dr. St. James? After all, you did point out a huge oversight on the feds’ part with the mutilated stag.”
As all eyes turn to her, Alister levels the young agent with a warning glare. He doesn’t like being called out on his oversights. “Get him out of my room—”
“I’d like to hear what Dr. St. James has to say.” Devyn stands in the middle of the room. Surrounded by the members of the local department, she addresses Alister. “And, no offense to the feds, but this isn’t your room or building. It’s town owned, paid by our taxes.”
Alister has gone furiously silent. Then, aiming a narrowed gaze on Halen, he says, “We have a lead in a neighboring town on an occult practice that delves into satanic rituals. This is where we’re focused, and the profile only derails.”
Devyn shakes her head. “I read the profile,” she says. “As did my colleagues and Detective Emmons. We have three suspects—”
“The FBI still has jurisdiction over this case,” Alister snaps. “No one is conducting any interviews outside of the Bureau’s investigation.”
“If you look for the suspect anywhere other than Hollow’s Row, you’ll waste precious time.” Halen remains seated, but her voice carries over the room. She glances at Devyn and gives her an appreciative nod.
Devyn follows up. “No one is pissing around jurisdictions, but the feds questioned everyone in this town except the actual suspect pool.” Her features draw together, conveying the weight of her next words. “And the fact is, Agent Alister, this is our family out there. Our friends. Our town. Our department should clear our suspects before crossing town lines. And for that to happen, we need very clear answers on what we’re looking for. Not vague parameters based on data and speculation.”
Hands anchored to his hips, Alister only nods once at Halen, giving her permission to respond to Devyn’s request. My hand curls into a fist at his disrespect toward her.
Devyn seats herself and breaks out a notepad, clicks a pen loudly. “What about the occult link? What do we look for?” She directs her questions toward Halen.
Tablet in hand, Halen stands. “It’s my opinion that the occult shouldn’t be a focal point. Occult practices aren’t sinister by nature. They’re merely hidden from general society.” Instead of giving this lecture to Alister, she turns her focus on Devyn and the locals, where it might resonate.
“The occult can delve into magick, Witchcraft, Wicca,” she continues, “or it can even explore Satanism. However, it’s man who’s flawed. Man can take any spiritual concept, any higher wisdom intended to enlighten, and in his selfish vanity, greed, and desire for power, corrupt absolutely. We’ve seen it throughout history with world leaders and tyrants who destroy and kill in the name of a higher purpose or god. But it’s man who is evil, not the practice itself.”
Alister opens his mouth to interrupt, but Halen pushes on, undeterred.
“As far as the profile, the offender is twisting an ideology for his own vanity. He perceives Frederick Nietzsche as something of a prophet, treating his philosophical work, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, as a guide and instruction manual, written for those deemed worthy to decipher the three stages of ascension into a higher being. The overman.”
As I start walking toward the back of the room, Halen visibly stiffens, like my nearness causes her physical discomfort. I don’t stop, and neither does she.
“The offender may be a loner, a recluse,” Halen says. “Someone you don’t see enter town often. He keeps to himself. He may not even live here full-time, keeping a temporary vacation home. This is because, as he identifies with Zarathustra, he’s spent months or even years in solitude ‘meditating’ to become enlightened. He’ll be friendly if approached, but it will feel forced, contrived. He views small-town life as mediocre, its people as lesser humans, because they’re content to live without the suffering and struggle to obtain a higher purpose in life.”
She’s dug into the archives. While I was sitting stagnant in a wrinkled suit for hours, Halen was poring over research, tying up connections—connections she formulated while embraced in my arms as she submitted to our frenzy.
“He will be intelligent,” she says. “Book smart. He may or may not have attended college, but he didn’t graduate. His knowledge of Western esoteric sects and philosophy is self-taught. Somewhere in his life, someone important made him feel inadequate. He has a superiority complex, but loathes intellectual debates. He feels a strong link to the master philosophers and may even believe he’s a reincarnation of one or many of them.
