DISCLAIMER: The Sentinel and its characters are the property of Paramount Studios and Pet Fly Productions. These stories are offered for the enjoyment of the fans. No money has exchanged hands.
Lullaby by Iris Wilde
.
Jim parked the truck by the crumbling curb and looked around. It was a part of the city not found in the travelers' brochures or mentioned in any tour guide's carefully practiced speech, yet it too was Cascade. The street was lined with shops that catered to various pleasures of the flesh, and here and there stood living advertisements with painted smiles and vacant eyes. An orange neon sign throbbed rhythmically, a siren's song of "XXX Girls," and almost every window carried cardboard promises of sex. Scattered about were other businesses -- a gated grocery, a couple of liquor stores, and a pawnshop -- but they did little to lend an air of legitimacy to the area.
Jim's gaze was drawn to the building on the corner. Its rose and gray exterior was a visual oasis amidst the garishness surrounding it, and it exuded such an aura of peace and stability that the words above the door, The Haven, seemed superfluous.
"Seems out of place." Blair's voice was little more than a reverent whisper.
"Like a saint among sinners," Jim added, stepping from the truck. "And right where it can do the most good. C'mon."
Jim felt the stares of the half-dozen women standing along the street. It was no surprise. The sight of two men heading toward The Haven and away from the business district was probably unusual, even suspect.
As they approached the door, a woman emerged from the building. Once, a lifetime ago, she might have been attractive, but now her face was lined and scarred, a recorded history of every drink, every drug, and every trick. Her age? Twenty-something... or maybe forty-something.
She sauntered toward them with a strut more sad than seductive. "Oooh! Now ain't you two something sweet to see early in the mornin'." She gave Jim the once over. "You've gotta be a cop, baby, 'cause a man with your body don't need to pay for it."
Jim grinned. "I bet you say that to all the guys."
"Just the pretty ones." She flipped a lock of straw-like hair over her shoulder and winked at Blair. "Now, you look like someone who wants to play."
"Um... um..."
Jim grabbed Blair by the scruff of the neck and gently urged him onward. "Later, Romeo. We're on company time."
Blair shrugged and muttered, "It's the hair, man. It's gotta be the hair."
"Yeah? Well, maybe it's time to get you groomed."
"One word about table legs, Jim, and you'll live to regret it."
"Oooh, I'm scared!" Jim held up a rock steady hand for effect. "This is me, scared." He sidestepped a half-hearted swat and yanked open the door, following Blair through.
The decor inside The Haven was as unpretentious and soothing as its exterior. Overstuffed chairs in sherbet pastels occupied much of the visible space. A young girl sat along the east wall, bouncing an infant on her pudgy knees. Her clothing, shorts and a shirt at least two sizes too small, did nothing to disguise her more than ample figure, weight probably gained during her pregnancy.
Jim shook his head sadly. If she was here at The Haven, then she was a working girl. Was the baby's father someone she knew, or was he just one of the faceless men she'd serviced on a particular night many months past?
Stay focused, he reminded himself. His job was to keep her and women like her from becoming victims of a singing rapist. Beyond that, her fate was out of his hands.
"Jim?" Megan motioned for them to join her across the room. Beside her stood an older woman with the soft, squishy physique of Aunt Bee and the steely eyes of a no-nonsense den mother.
"Ms. Paxton, I presume." Jim extended his hand. The woman's grip was every bit as firm as he'd imagined it would be. She was a force to be reckoned with.
"Detective. So, what are you going to do about this bastard?"
"Well," Jim looked to Megan for assistance, but her sly smile said quite plainly that he was on his own, "our first step is to warn the women so they --"
"I've already done that. They know the risks, but when all you can think about is your next fix or your next drink or," she spared the woman with the baby a glance, "your kid's next meal, you rationalize things."
"We'll want to speak with the women who --"
"They've already given their statements to one of your officers. If you want to speak to them yourself, let me know so I can start contacting them. They don't exactly work nine-to-five."
Jim took a deep breath and rubbed the back of his neck. Count to ten. "Look, Ms. Paxton --"
"Maureen." Her voice was milder now, almost genial, and she allowed her shoulders to slump a bit. "I'm sorry, Detective. I don't mean to take this out on you, but I know how the rest of Cascade views this part of town. I know what they think about the women here. They're human sewage, the bottom feeders. And in the war on crime, more often than not they're considered the enemy."
"Jim," Megan piped in, "Maureen and I chatted quite a bit before you and Sandy got here, and we have an idea."
"Let me guess. You want to go undercover as one of the local ladies."
Megan seemed briefly taken aback but nodded. "What do you think?"
"I think it sounds like something out of a 70's television cop show. It also happens to be an excellent idea. If you can pull it off, that is."
Megan arched her eyebrows. "I have many hidden talents."
Jim heard Blair's nearly silent chuckle.
"Okay, head back to the precinct and brief Simon. Sandburg and I won't be far behind."
"Right." She said good-bye to Maureen before heading for the door.
"Hold on, Megan. I'll walk out with you."
Jim watched his partner scurry to catch up with Megan and turned his attention back to Maureen. She was frowning, and her gaze was unfocused and downcast, as if viewing some dark memory. Jim gently touched her arm.
"We'll get him, Maureen. I promise."
Act II
Blair held the door while Megan slipped into her car. He shut it behind her and leaned on the frame of the lowered window. "Well, this will be quite a career change for you," he teased.
"Nothing I can't handle, Sandy. I've done this type of thing before. Well, not this type of thing... I mean, as a police officer... but not... damn, you know what I mean!"
Blair grinned and patted her on the shoulder. "It'll be our little secret." He laughed as she drove away in a cloud of Aussie slang and watched her car disappear around the corner.
A moment later his laughter froze in his throat, choking him, as his eyes filled with yellow mist.
Lash.
Golden.
The dual terror surged through his mind in an icy wave as the mist enveloped his face, but he fought the instinct to claw at it. Instead, he took a deep breath, lifted a single hand... and touched gossamer.
"Hey, Mister, are you looking for some fun?"
The gauzy material slipped past his fingers as the "mist" was tugged up and over his head and a slender figure stepped from behind him. Blair's heart dropped into his stomach.
She wore jeans and a tank top, of which one slim spaghetti strap was attached with a safety pin. She was slightly shorter than he, with shoulder-length brown hair, brown eyes, and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. Blair had seen enough of street life to recognize a newcomer, and this girl, still fresh-faced, with a hint of fear and uncertainty, was a recent addition.
She looked like someone's kid sister. And probably was.
A long yellow scarf, the object that only seconds before had startled him, now hung innocuously around her shoulders. Tiny beads and mirrors reflected the sun's rays, dancing them about the young girl's neck and face like firelight.
A distant memory surfaced. Another time. Another place. A different kind of firelight. "Where is your heart?"
"Hey." A hand waggled back and forth before his eyes. "Are you in there?"
Blair shook loose from the memory. "Um, yeah, I'm here."
"So?"
"So, I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why not?" The girl moved in closer and placed her hand on his chest. "Don't you like girls?"
Blair took her hand in his. "I like girls very much. I respect them, too."
Confusion flashed through the girl's eyes. This was obviously not the response she had expected.
"Gypsy," Maureen Paxton called from the doorway, "if you're hoping to get a rap sheet, keep it up." Jim edged around her, holding the door wide. Blair watched the girl's eyes widen at the sight of his partner. She turned her attention back to him and sighed.
"Some other time."
He tightened his grip on her hand before she could pull away. "Maybe we could get together. Just to talk."
"Talk?"
Blair released her hand and grinned. "Talk."
"Okay." She returned his smile. "Weird, but okay." She pulled the scarf tightly around her shoulders and headed for The Haven. Jim held the door for her, gave Maureen a quick wave, and joined Blair.
"She's a little young for you, Sandburg."
"She's a little young, period. What's a kid her age doing down here?"
Jim shrugged and headed for the truck. "What are any of them doing down here, Chief?"
Blair shadowed him, silent.
Jim closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He loved Sally's spaghetti sauce. During his last visit with his father he had persuaded her to part with the recipe. It had a unique, heady flavor he'd loved even as a child, but as he stood at the stove, stirring the simmering sauce, it was the aroma that enraptured him. Sweet basil, spicy parsley, earthy rosemary, pungent, nose-tickling garlic -- he was bordering on an olfactory orgasm. He took another deep breath, delighted to discover he could "taste" the sauce without putting a drop on his tongue. He nearly made a comment to that effect, but thought better of it, realizing it would be tantamount to hanging a neon sign around his neck that read, "Please test me."
"So, Jim, the sauce must be doing wonderful things to your sense of smell, huh?"
Damn.
Blair stuck his head over the steaming mixture and sniffed. "Smells scrumptious."
Jim shoved him away. "Get out of there. It's one thing to find your hair all over the bathroom, but if you get it in this sauce I swear you'll wake up bald."
"Misery loves compa -- Ow!" Blair rubbed his arm as he retreated to the other side of the kitchen island, well beyond Jim's reach. He picked up a knife and resumed chopping tomatoes for the salad, pausing only to cast an expectant glance toward his room. "So, how much longer do you think she'll be?"
Jim shrugged. "Hard to tell. Think of it as a dress rehearsal for a school play. You have to put on the costume and the makeup, just like it's the real thing."
"For some women it is the real thing."
Jim noted the grim line of his partner's lips. "You're thinking about the girl from this morning."
"God, Jim, she couldn't have been a day over seventeen... eighteen at the most. She should be picking out colleges, not picking up men."
"None of them should, Chief."
"I know, but this girl... there was something different about her."
Jim crooked an eyebrow. "We're about to enter the Sandburg Zone, aren't we?"
"I'm going to talk to her, see if I can find out her story. Maybe I can help."
"Just don't expect a miracle, okay?"
Jim turned his attention to the French doors as they swung open. Megan stepped out, wearing a satiny red dress, complete with plunging neckline and a thigh-high slit on the side, and spike-heeled pumps. Hands on her hips, she did a slow 360, then struck a pose.
"What do you think?"
"Wow!"
Blair's smile seemed painfully wide to Jim, who pressed two fingers to his lips and viewed Megan with a more critical eye. A few seconds later, he shook his head. "No, it's too uptown. You look like you work for an escort service."
Megan cocked her head to one side. "I need something... sleazier?"
"Yeah. This," he indicated the dress, "says, 'Here's a price list and yes, we take credit cards.' You want something that says, 'I'll do anything for twenty-five bucks and an order of fries.'"
Blair choked and returned to his tomatoes. Megan nodded and returned to Blair's room. Jim returned to his beloved sauce.
"Hey, did you read Brown's report?"
"Yeah. Can't say I was surprised." Jim removed the sauce from the stove and turned the burner off. "Too bad Schirding's ex-wife didn't say something back then. It might've saved some lives."
"I guess she was in a state of denial."
"She had her reputation to consider. Thirty-five years ago divorce, especially in the Schirdings' circle, was a rarity. 'Irreconcilable differences' was acceptable. 'Incest' would've caused a stir at the country club."
Blair popped a tomato wedge into his mouth. "Maybe she wanted to spare her daughter."
"Maybe, but you saw the report. The girl was in and out of therapy for years. Drugs, alcohol, suicide attempts. Maybe what her daughter needed was validation."
"Hindsight is twenty-twenty, man."
"Tell that to victims six through eight, the ones found in the bay." Jim dumped the spaghetti from a colander onto a plate and handed it to Blair. "I feel for Schirding's ex-wife and daughter, Chief, but the rapes and murders occurred after they'd moved out. If Mrs. Schirding had gone to the police, things might have been different."
Blair set the plate on the table. "Well, we know this new guy is mimicking Schirding's original pattern, including details which were never publicized, so it stands to reason that Schirding is feeding him information. We need to catch the copycat and get him to roll over on Schirding about those old murders."
"It's been a week since the fourth victim was attacked. Schirding never went longer than ten days." Jim poured the sauce into a bowl and carried it to the table. "If our suspicions about Schirding killing those three women are correct, and if this new guy follows the pattern, he'll murder his sixth victim."
"We'll just have to make sure he doesn't get a chance."
"From your lips to God's ears," Jim murmured. He heard the French doors rattle as they opened again and moved forward to get a better look.
He had wanted sleazy, and she hadn't disappointed him. She wore cutoffs so short they would have been the envy of Daisy Duke and a shirt that exposed most of her midriff. She had opted for sandals this time, evidently going for maximum exposure. Jim peered closely at her face and, spying the addition of heavy eyeshadow and lipstick, nodded his approval.
He turned to ask Blair for his opinion but quickly determined it wasn't necessary. Blair's eyes bulged in their sockets and his mouth hung open, but he remained speechless. Jim chuckled and gave Megan the thumbs up.
"Perfect, Connor."
"Perfect, my ass!" Megan adjusted her shorts as discreetly as possible and hoped to heaven she wouldn't have to chase down any perps while wearing them. She didn't like pain. She also didn't like cold air on bare skin, but at sundown a frosty breeze had begun blowing off the bay, and her "perfect" attire provided little protection. She'd brought a jacket to wear, but her unprotected legs were covered with goosebumps.
She checked her watch. Almost two a.m. Just a few more minutes and she could call it a night. Maureen Paxton had persuaded the women who worked this area to wrap up their business by two and meet back at The Haven. "Primetime" was between eleven p.m. and two a.m., so there had been little opposition. For that, Megan was grateful.
A car cruised by, slowed almost to a stop, and then resumed speed as if the driver had changed his mind. A second car followed shortly thereafter but continued down the road as well. Good. She was in no mood to walk the short distance to the curb to deal with some hormonally charged jackass.
She found the situation strangely comedic. Normally Vice would have been running regular patrols through the area, arresting those making their living in the world's oldest profession. For now, though, a moratorium had been declared on arrests, and the prostitutes plied their trade under the watchful eyes of their former adversaries. There was a bigger fish to catch.
Another car approached, this time pulling up to the curb. One of the two men inside it waved her over, leaving little room for interpretation. Megan plastered her sexiest smile across her lips.
"Hey, good lookin', wanna party?"
Megan wrinkled her nose. "Forget it, mister. You can't afford me."
"Rafe, man, you need to work on your technique. That was lame." Henri Brown leaned across his partner from the driver's seat. "Fair creature, wouldst thou grace us with your presence in our most unworthy chariot?"
Megan rolled her eyes. "Lovely. I get to choose between Tony Manero and a Don Juan wannabe. You'll have to do better than that."
Henri grinned. "Two words: working heater."
"I'm all yours." Megan yanked open the rear passenger door and slid into the car, grateful for the cloth-covered seats beneath her legs. Cold leather would have been the last straw.
Rafe pivoted in his seat to face her. "Jim called. The women are heading to The Haven, as promised."
"Good. Any problems?"
"Nothing out of the ordinary. It's the middle of the week, so things are slow."
"It's getting down to the wire," Brown added. "If this guy's gonna stick to the original pattern, he'll have to act within the next forty-eight hours."
"Unfortunately we don't have any guarantees he'll follow the same pattern," Rafe said. "So far he's only mimicked the general location of the attacks and the actual rapes themselves. There are plenty of inconsistencies."
Megan tugged at her shorts again and began to massage her icy legs. "Let's hope this isn't one of them. I'd like to catch this bloke before he hurts another woman."
Brown met her gaze in the review mirror. "We all would."
She settled back into the seat and closed her eyes, allowing the warmth of the car's interior to seep into her body. As she felt the stress fade with the cold, she offered silent thanks that, for her, this lifestyle was only pretend.
"Well?"
"I saw her. The one I want."
"What did she look like?"
"Pretty. Kinda long hair."
"Good. Long hair is an asset. Makes them easier to control. You can grab on to it, twist it, pull it. They can't get away."
"Yeah, I know. You told me."
"You remember everything I tell you, don't you?"
"Of course."
"Do you remember what I told you the last time?"
"You said that I'd only had a taste of what could be. That it was time to know what it means to be a god."
"That's right. Other people want to do what we do. They fantasize, they write books, they make movies, but it's meaningless without action. They don't have the courage to follow through, so they hide behind false morality and flimsy paper laws."
"They're afraid of the dark."
"I wasn't. You're not. Are you ready?"
"I want to be a god."
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This page last updated 10/12/00.