Tidings of Fear. Ericka Scott

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СКАЧАТЬ Sylvie had an apartment in Washington DC, and Lia wanted as far away from home as possible. But neither of them could bear to sell the house. Instead, they’d hired a reputable management company to take care of the property. The last time Lia had checked, a bed and breakfast had been in residence. In her dream, Lia walked through the house. It looked exactly the same. She began to run through the rooms, frantically looking for something. In the distance, she heard her mother calling her name.

      She jumped awake. A shrill beeping notified her that morning had finally arrived. She needed to get moving if she wanted to catch her plane.

      Despite the early hour, the airport buzzed with activity. With the new security measures put into place since that fateful September 11^th, she found herself singled out for additional security checks. Bored security guards picked through her carry-on bags and had her take their picture with her digital camera. She suffered it all in good grace. As a photo journalist, she’d traveled through war-torn countries where death lurked around every corner and an unattended bag could result in having not only her personal affects, but also her person, shredded by shrapnel. The extra scrutiny was worth the hassle.

      All the while, she looked for signs. To her surprise, there were none. No eights, no weirdly folded newspapers. Nothing.

      What did that mean? She shuddered. The last time the signs had disappeared, it meant her parents were dead. Was she too late? Unable to follow that thought all the way through to the grim conclusion, she boarded the plane.

      Glancing down at her boarding pass, she frowned. Triple eight. She sighed and resisted the urge to sing “They’re back.” The narrow aisle was crowded and no flight attendants were in sight. She made her way all the way to the back of the plane. Before she hit the button to call for assistance, she looked back down at the ticket. The numbers now read B28. Fate’s cruel sense of humor struck again. Hell, the seats didn’t even recline back here.

      She hefted her carry-on into the luggage bin and then sank into her seat. Closing her eyes, she fell asleep within minutes. Luckily, this time she didn’t dream.

      * * * *

      Professor Trimble’s phone was ringing…again.

      Priscilla, the office secretary, sighed. She wished he would just answer his damn phone. When it rang for the third time in half an hour, she stalked down the hallway, the staccato tapping of her high heels sounding loud and vicious. At Dr. Trimble’s open office door, she paused. At first glance, she saw no sign of him, only piles and piles of journals, boxes, books and file folders.

      Jesus. The man was a pack rat with a Ph.D.

      Grabbing the knob, the temptation to slam the door shut was strong, until she saw him. Dr. Jared Jerome Trimble. A rush of emotion flowed through her as she studied his features. She’d never thought she’d be attracted to a man with a beard, but the professor’s goatee looked sexier than the stubble that had made George Michael’s fame. And Jared’s eyes! She’d never seen eyes the color of his, gold with a few brown flecks. Yes, indeed, his six-foot tall muscular frame certainly caught the eye of many a female student and visiting faculty member. She’d never admit that he’d caught her eye too. Nice to look at, but a heartbreaker.

      Contrary to the rumors, though, Dr. Trimble didn’t chase skirts. Women chased him. They didn’t hang around long, though. Most women didn’t have the patience to put up with a man like Dr. Trimble. After the second or third time he’d stood them up, women gave up on him.

      There were only two things that kept his interest. Anthropology and crossword puzzles.

      Priscilla smiled, picturing a woman waiting impatiently at a cafe table, until the phone fell silent. Good luck to that poor woman. She pulled the door shut quietly and left the professor sitting on the floor surrounded by piles of pictures.

      * * * *

      Jared glanced up when the door closed, but then went back to work. When the phone rang again an hour later he was examining a pile of skulls. Well, only a photograph of the mound, but the image spoke volumes to him.

      Spread out over every surface of his office were graphic pictures of destruction and dismemberment, some ancient and some all too recent. All of them concerned with one thing. Death.

      When attendance in his class had fallen off a few years ago, Jared had decided to add some popular elements back into the curriculum. Anthropology consisted of much more than simply digging up ancient civilizations, it comprised a way of understanding man and his evolution. Taking a page out of popular television shows, he’d come up with new components to his syllabus.

      His new program scored a hit with the students, and had gained him tenure and a bit of notoriety among his peers. The school staff thought the concept macabre, but they couldn’t question its appeal, especially when other instructors at area colleges copied his methods. His latest topic had been the most popular and most gruesome. Death trophies.

      Crime profilers were all too familiar with killers who took items from their victims, especially since the type of objects taken were as individual to the killers as their fingerprints.

      Jared knew the practice of taking trophies had existed long before modern day serial killers made the concept popular. Ancient Aztecs took the heads of the conquered, stacking them in macabre displays in their temples. The Nazis stole the wealth of their victims. Mostly money, gold and artwork, but their quest to profit from their crimes caused them to harvest the hair, skin and teeth. Even more common trophies were the victims themselves. The victorious often made slaves of the residents of the countries and communities they conquered. In fact, in relation to this lecture, he should do some additional research on modern day slavery, of which there were many kinds: sex slaves, and recently, a case of involuntary servitude of maids in a ritzy New York neighborhood.

      When he’d started college, he’d envisioned himself digging up pottery and old skeletons, coming back to a safe office and typing up long, scholastic reports. He’d never dreamed that part of his job would be dissecting of the whys and wherefores of genocide, He loved routine and concrete answers, not peeking into the minds of insane, power hungry individuals. If he had known, he would have promptly changed his major to something more mundane, like underwater basket-weaving. In the end, though, he couldn’t complain. The work might have tended toward the gruesome, but was certainly never boring.

      A shrill peal pulled him out of his reverie. Would that damn phone never stop? He stretched to press the speaker phone button. “Hello?”

      “Professor Jared Trimble?” a male asked.

      “Speaking.”

      “I’m special agent Mark Powers. Your name came up as an expert in your field.”

      “I’m honored, sir, but there are other faculty members on staff with more experience and expertise in anthropology—”

      “Oh, this isn’t about anthropology,” Mark interrupted.

      “Then what is it about?”

      “Crossword puzzles. It seems I have a serial killer with a fondness for cruciverbalism.”

       Chapter 3

      It happened so fast. How many times had a victim told her that and she’d scoffed, yes, scoffed at them. Sylvie Morgan had always believed that with the right precautions and forethought, all kidnappings and assaults could be prevented.

      She СКАЧАТЬ