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  “Yes,” gulped Clinton, wiping away his tears. “Yes, I’ll go out there with you. We’ve gotta make those bastards pay for what they did tonight.”

  It wasn’t long before Clinton found himself sitting in the back seat of the patrol car. Oddly enough, Phyllis chose to accompany them to the scene of the heinous sacrifice. She rode silently up front with the sheriff.

  As they headed along the state highway toward the southern end of Bedloe County, Clinton sat there numbly, breathing raggedly and staring straight ahead. Soon, his mind began to grow clearer and his distress over Nellie Sue was replaced by a more immediate sense of alarm.

  In the green glow of the dashboard light, Clinton began to notice startling similarities between the two who rode up front. Similarities like the way they both wore long sleeves, even in the broiling heat of summer, and the fact that he had never seen the bare flesh of their arms exposed in the light of day.

  And there was one other thing. For the first time, Clinton realized how very much Phyllis and Boyce resembled one another. They had the same jet-black hair, the same dark eyes, the same swarthy complexion. They could have easily passed for brother and sister.

  Clinton Harpe leaned his head back on the cushioned seat and screwed his eyes tightly shut, knowing that there was no escape as the patrol car headed down the deserted dirt road toward Devil’s Creek. He lifted a trembling hand to his throat and felt the fragility of the flesh and muscle, as well as the pounding pulse of the blood-engorged arteries within.

  And he found himself thinking of the flash of moonlit steel and the dark altar of that unholy backwoods church.

  The Winds Within

  Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, so goes the saying.

  Particularly in my case.

  During the day, they perform the menial tasks of the normal psyche. But at night, the cold comes. It snakes its way into my head, coating my brain with ice. My mind is trapped beneath the frigid surface; screaming, demanding relief. It is then that my hands grow uninhibited and become engines of mischief and destruction.

  As the hour grows late and the temperature plunges, they take on a life of their own. They move through the frosty darkness like fleshen moths drawn to a flame. Searching for warmth.

  And the winds within howl.

  “Dammit!” grumbled Lieutenant Ken Lowery as the beeper on his belt went off. He washed down a mouthful of raspberry Danish with strong black coffee, then reached down and snapped off the monotonous alarm of the portable pager. “I knew it was going to be a pain in the neck when the department passed these things out. Makes me feel like I’m a doctor instead of a cop.”

  Lowery’s partner, Sergeant Ed Taylor, sat across from him in the coffee shop booth. He nibbled on a cream-filled donut, looking tanned and rested from his recent vacation to Florida. “I hope it’s not anything serious,” said Taylor. “I don’t think I could stomach bullet holes and brains my first day back on the job. Not after I’ve spent the last week in Disney World, rubbing elbows with Mickey Mouse and Goofy.”

  Lowery stood up and stared at the man with mock pit. “Oh, the tragic and unfair woes of a homicide detective.”

  “Okay, okay,” chuckled Taylor. “Just make the call, will you?”

  The police lieutenant went to the front counter and asked to use the business phone. He talked to the police dispatcher for a moment, then returned to the booth, looking more than a little pale.

  “What’s up?” asked Taylor. “Did they give us a bad one?”

  Lowery nodded. “You know that case I was telling you about earlier? The one I was assigned to while you were on vacation?”

  “The mutilation murder?”

  “One and the same. Except that it’s two and the same now.”

  Taylor felt his veneer of tranquility begin to melt away. The lingering effects of the Magic Kingdom faded in dreadful anticipation of blood and body bags. “Another one? Where?”

  “The same apartment building,” said Lowery. “One-one-four-five Courtland Street.”

  “Well, I’m finished,” said Taylor. He crammed the last bite of donut into his mouth. “Let’s go.”

  “Welcome back to the real world, pal,” said Lowery as they climbed into their unmarked Chrysler and headed for the south side of the city.

  The apartment building on 1145 Courtland Street was one of Atlanta’s older buildings, built around the turn of the century. It was unremarkable in many ways. It was five stories tall, constructed of red brick and concrete, and its lower walls were marred with four-letter graffiti and adolescent depictions of exaggerated genitalia. The one thing about the structure that did stand out were the twin fire escapes of rusty wrought-iron that zigzagged their way along the northern and southern walls from top to bottom. The outdated additions gave it the appearance of a New York tenement house, rather than anything traditionally Southern.

  There were a couple of patrol cars parked out front, as well as the coroner’s maroon station wagon. “Looks like the gang is all here,” observed Lowery. He parked the car and the two got out. “The dispatcher said this one was on the ground floor. The first murder was on the fourth floor. The victim was an arc-welder by the name of Joe Killian. And, believe me, it was a hell of a mess.”

  “I’ll check out the case photos when we get back to the office,” Taylor said. He followed his partner up the steps and past a few curious tenants in the drab hallway. The apartment building was nothing more than a low-rent dive, a place where people down on luck – but not enough to resort to the housing projects or homeless shelters – paid by the week to keep off of the cold streets. And it was plenty cold that month. It was only mid-December, but already the temperature had dipped below freezing several times.

  They located the scene of the crime in one of the rear ground floor apartments. The detectives nodded to the patrolman at the door – who looked as if he had just puked up that morning’s breakfast – and then stepped into the cramped apartment. Tom Blakely from the forensic department was dusting for prints in the living room, which was furnished with only a threadbare couch, a La-Z-Boy recliner, and a 25-inch Magnavox.

  “The ME is in the bedroom with the stiff,” Blakely told them, not bothering to look up from his work.

  Lowery and Taylor walked into the back room. The coroner, Stuart Walsh, was standing next to the bloodstained bed, staring down at the body of the victim, while Jennifer Burke, the department’s crime photographer, was snapping the shutter with no apparent emotion on her pretty face.

  “Morning, gentlemen,” said Walsh with a Georgia drawl. He eyed Taylor’s tanned, but uneasy face. “So, how was the weather down in Orlando, Ed?”

  “Warm and sunny,” the sergeant said absently. He felt the donuts and coffee boil in his stomach. “Who do we have here?”

  “The landlord of this establishment,” said the medical examiner. “Mr. Phil Jarrett. White male, fifty-seven years of age.”

  “Who found him?”

  “According to the officer in the hallway, a tenant stopped by to pay his rent early this morning. He knocked repeatedly, but got no answer, and found the door securely locked. He then went around the side of the building, stepped onto the fire escape, and peeked in the bedroom window over yonder. That’s when he discovered Mr. Jarrett in his present state.”

  Lowery stared at the body of the middle-aged man. “Just like the other guy?”

  “Yep. Exactly the same. The same organs were taken after the throat was slashed from ear to ear, just like Killian.”

  “Organs?” asked Taylor.

  The coroner bent down and, with a rubber-gloved hand, showed the detective the extent of the damage. “Pretty nasty, huh?”

  “I’ll say,” said Taylor. He turned away for a moment. He felt nauseous at the sight of mutilation, even though he had been on Homicide detail for nearly ten years. “Why would someone do something like that?”

  Walsh shrugged. “I reckon that’s what we’re here for.” The coroner turned to Lieutenant
Lowery. “Did you ever find any leads after the Killian body was found?” he asked.

  “Nope,” said the detective. “Haven’t had much of a chance. The Killian murder was only last Friday, you know. I interviewed the landlord here. He didn’t have anything useful to say. Looks like that’s still the case.”

  Ed Taylor regained his composure and studied the body again. It was clad only in a V-necked undershirt and a pair of Fruit-of-the-Loom boxer shorts, both saturated with gore. He stared at the ugly wounds, then glanced at his partner. “Did you interview any of the tenants, Ken?”

  “Not yet,” said Lowery. “But that would be the best place to start.” The detective looked over at the lady photographer, who had finished taking the crime photos. “Could you have some prints for us later today, Jenny?”

  Burke lit a cigarette and blew smoke through her nostrils. “I’ll have some glossy 8x10s on your desk by noon,” she promised, then glanced around the grungy bedroom with disgust. “This guy was a real scum-sucker. Look at what he put on his walls.”

  The detectives had been so interested in Jarrett’s corpse that they had neglected to notice the obscene collage that papered the walls of the landlord’s bedroom. Pictures from hundreds of hardcore magazines had been clipped and pasted to the sheetrock. A collection of big-breasted and spread-eagled women of all sizes and races graced the walls from floor to ceiling, as well as a number of young boys and girls who were far under the legal age.

  “Yeah,” agreed Lowery. He spotted a naked child that bore an uncomfortable resemblance to his own six-year-old daughter. “Looks like the pervert deserved what he got. Kind of makes it a shame to book this bastard’s killer. We ought to pin a freaking medal on their chest instead.”

  “We’ve got to find the guilty party first,” said Taylor. “And we’re not going to do that standing around here chewing the fat.”

  “Then let’s get to work.” Lieutenant Lowery clapped Walsh on the shoulder. “Send us your report when you get through with the post mortem, okay, Doc?”

  “Will do,” said the coroner. “And good luck with the investigation.”

  “Thanks,” said Taylor. He glanced at the mutilated body of Phil Jarrett and shook his head. “Hell of a contrast to Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.”

  “Like I said before,” Lowery told him, “welcome home.”

  “Pardon me, ma’am, but we’d like to ask you a few questions concerning your former landlord, Mr. Jarrett,” Lowery said. He flipped open his wallet and displayed his shield.

  The occupant of Apartment 2-B glared at them through the crack of the door for a moment, eyeing them with a mixture of suspicion and contempt. Then the door slammed, followed by the rattle of a chain being disengaged. “Come on in,” said the woman. “But let’s hurry this up, okay? I’ve gotta be at work in fifteen minutes.”

  Lowery and Taylor stepped inside, first studying the tenant, Melba Cox, and then her apartment. The woman herself was husky and unattractive, sporting a butch haircut and a hard definition to her muscles that hinted of regular weight training. The furnishings of her apartment reflected her masculine frame of mind. There was no sign of femininity in the décor. An imitation leather couch and chairs sat around the front room, and the walls were covered with Harley-Davidson posters. The coffee table was littered with stray cigarette butts, empty beer cans, and militant feminist literature. Lowery and Taylor exchanged a knowing glance. Cox was either a devout women’s libber or a dyed-in-the-wool lesbian. A combination of both, more than likely.

  “Really nothing much to say about the guy, is there?” asked the woman. “He’s dead, ain’t he?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Taylor. “We just wanted to know if you have any idea who would kill Mr. Jarrett? Did he have any enemies?”

  “Oh, he had plenty of enemies,” declared Cox. “Me included. Jarrett was a real prick. Always hiking the rent, never fixing a damned thing around here, and always make lewd remarks to the women in the building. He tried to put the make on me once. I just about castrated the sonofabitch with a swift kick south of the belt buckle.”

  “What about the other victim? Killian?”

  Melba Cox frowned. “Didn’t know him very well, but he was a sexist pig, just like Jarrett was. Just like all men are.”

  “Have you seen or heard anything out of the ordinary lately?” Taylor asked. “Arguments between Jarrett and a tenant, maybe? Any suspicious characters hanging around the building?”

  “Nope. I try to keep my nose out of other people’s business, and hope that they’ll do the same.” She glanced at a Budweiser clock that hung over the sofa, then scowled at the two detectives. “I gotta go now. Unless the Atlanta P.D. wants to reimburse me for docked pay, that is.”

  “We’ve got to be going ourselves,” said Lowery as they stepped into the hallway. He handed her one of his cards. “We would appreciate it if you would give us a call if you happen to think of anything else that might help us.”

  Melba Cox glared at the card for a second, then stuffed it into the hip pocket of her jeans. “Don’t hold your breath,” she grumbled, then headed down the stairs, dressed in an insulated jacket and heavy, steel-toed work boots, and toting a large metal lunchbox.

  “Wonderful woman,” said Taylor.

  “Yeah,” replied Lowery. “She’d make a great den mother for the Hell’s Angels.” His lean face turned thoughtful. “She might just be the kind of bull dyke who would hold a grudge against a guy like Jarrett, too. And maybe even do something about it.”

  “Won’t you gentlemen come in?” asked Dwight Rollins, the tenant of Apartment 3-D.

  “Don’t mind old Conrad there. He won’t bite you.”

  Lowery and Taylor looked at each other, then entered the third floor apartment. The first thing that struck them about Rollins was that he was blind. The elderly, silver-haired man was dressed casually in slacks and wool sweater, giving him the appearance of a retired college professor. But the effect was altered by the black-lensed glasses and white cane. The dog that lay on the floor was the typical seeing-eye dog – a black and tan German Shepherd.

  “We didn’t mean to disturb you, Mr. Rollins,” said Lowery, “but we wanted to ask you a few questions concerning the recent deaths of Phil Jarrett and Joe Killian.”

  Rollins felt his way across the room and sat in an armchair. “Terrible thing that happened to those fellows, just terrible. Not that I’m surprised. This certainly isn’t one of Atlanta’s most crime-free neighborhoods, you know. Some young hoodlum broke into my bedroom six months ago. The bastard slugged me with a blackjack while I was asleep and stole my tape player and all my audio books. Now why would someone stoop so low as to steal from a blind man?”

  “There are a lot of bad apples out there, sir,” said Taylor. “Some would mug their own grandmother for a hit of crack. About Jarrett and Killian… what sort of impression did you have of them?”

  “Killian was nice enough. He was a welder. I could tell that by the smell of scorched metal that hung around him all the time. I never said much to the gentleman, though. Just an occasional ‘hello’ in the hallway.” The old man frowned sourly at the thought of his landlord. “Jarrett was a hard man to deal with sometimes. He could be downright dishonest. He tried to cheat me out of rent money several times, telling me that a ten was a five, or a twenty was a ten. I’d never let him hornswaggle me, though. The bank where I cash my disability checks always Braille mark the bills for me. Of course, I really couldn’t say much about Jarrett’s treachery. A blind man has a hard enough time making it on his own, without making an enemy of the one who provides a roof over his head.”

  “Have you seen – ” Embarrassed, Lowery corrected himself. “Have you heard anything out of the ordinary lately? Strangers? Maybe an argument between Jarrett and one of the other tenants?”

  “There’s always some bad blood in a place like this, but nothing any worse than usual.” The old man’s face grew somber. “I have had the feeling that somebody’s been
prowling around the building, though. I’ve heard strange footsteps in the hallway outside. Several times I’ve felt like someone was standing on the other side of my door, just staring at it, as if trying to see me through the wood.” He reached down to where he knew the dog laid and scratched the animal behind the ears. “You’ve sensed it, too, haven’t you, Conrad?”

  The German Shepherd answered with a nervous whine and rested its head on its paws.

  “Well, we won’t keep you any longer, Mr. Rollins,” said Taylor. He caught himself before he could hand the man one of his cards, giving Rollins the number vocally instead. “Please give us a call if you think of anything else that could help.”

  “I surely will,” said Dwight Rollins. “Do you think the murderer lives here in the building?”

  “We can’t say for sure, sir. It’s a possibility, though.”

  “Lord, what’s this world coming to?” muttered Rollins. “Well, at least I’ve got good locks on my door. Somebody would have to be a hell of a Houdini to get past three deadbolts.”

  The two detectives said nothing in reply. They thought it best not to upset the old man by telling him that, strangely enough, the apartment doors of both Jarrett and Killian had been securely locked from the inside, both before and after the times of their murders.

  “Who the hell is it?” growled a sleepy voice from Apartment 4-A.

  “Atlanta Police Department, sir,” called Lowery through the door. “We were wondering if we could talk to you for a few minutes?”

  “Is this real important?” asked the tenant, Mike Porter. “If you’re selling tickets to the freaking policeman’s ball, I’m gonna be mighty pissed off!”

  “There’s been another murder in the building, Mr. Porter,” said Taylor. “We’d like to talk to you about it.”

  The click of deadbolts and the rattle of chains sounded from the other side, then the door opened. A muscular fellow with dirty blond hair and an ugly scar down one side of his face peered out at them. “Somebody else got fragged?” he asked groggily. “Who was it this time?”