CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Faith's eyes opened. She was in Dr. West's office. That surprised her.

Why did that surprise her? She tried to turn and found her head was bound to the back of her chair. When she tried to lift her arms to remove the bonds, she found that they were tied to the sleeves of the chair as well. The chair itself wasn't the upholstered easy chair that West kept in his office but a rough-hewn wooden chair without a cushion.

That's why she was surprised. She'd had this dream many times, but the setting was wrong. The chair was the same. The ropes were the same. But the room was different. She should be in a barn lit only by a crack in the wall behind her. Ahead of her should be a tray with rusty, pitted knives and saws and, beyond that, a door. Instead, she faced a high-backed, claw-foot leather chair. Sitting on that chair wasn't Jethro Trammell, the crazed killer that had kidnapped, bound, tortured and nearly killed her but Dr. Franklin West, the equally crazed killer that had tortured her psychologically for months before trying and failing to kill her friends.

Dr. West was reading a book, but Faith couldn't tell what the book was. That made sense. She'd heard somewhere that the part of the brain that could read words shut down during sleep, so you couldn't read anything in a dream.

Why was she thinking about that right now? What was going on?

Dr. West set the book down and looked at Faith. He smiled pleasantly, the same benign look he gave Faith during their sessions together. "Hello, Faith. How are you feeling today?"

"Why am I here?" she asked. "Why aren't we in the barn?"

He shrugged. "This is your dream, Faith. You tell me."

Faith had an answer to that question, but she hated it. Still, it was only a dream. The real Franklin West was languishing in jail, waiting for the eventual end to the trial that would see him convicted of multiple murders and sentenced to multiple life sentences somewhere dark and cold and hidden from the rest of the world.

"I suppose I need your help."

"It might be more effective to call me," he replied. "After all, you're only talking to yourself right now. Incidentally, you should probably ask your new therapist why part of your psyche is represented by a man who nearly broke you mentally, emotionally and physically. That can't be healthy."

The taunt in his voice caused anger to flash through her, but she controlled herself. If she was going to have this dream, she might as well try to bend her subconscious to help her. "I'm trying to figure out this killer. I can't figure out how he's choosing his victims."

"You know, I read somewhere that a journalist interviewed Ted Bundy and asked him how he chose his victims. He told the journalist that he never chose a single one of his victims. They chose him."

"I don't think that was Ted Bundy."

West flipped his hand. "Maybe not. It doesn't matter. The point is, what did those victims do to leave themselves vulnerable to him? It's worth noting that Bundy almost never forced his victims to go with him."

"This killer's victims were alone," Faith replied. "Cassidy Holt was in a botanical garden at night and far from security. Samantha Reynard lived alone in her apartment. Lorraine Hayes walked home from the library at night down a secluded path. Are you saying we should encourage people not to be alone?"

"If you think that would help, then yes. But that's trying to stop a flood by putting a log across a waterfall."

"That's the answer, though. He's preying on women who are vulnerable. And he's killing them quickly before they can fight back or call for help. So he's a coward."

"Perhaps," West replied. "Or perhaps the killing itself isn't important."

"If it's not important, then why do it?"

West clucked his tongue and shook his head. "Come on, Faith. Even as a stand-in for the baser aspects of your personality, I'm not going to make it that easy for you. You know the answer to that question. You tell me. Why kill them? If he doesn't need to, then why go to the trouble?"

She thought a moment. "He wouldn't. Unless not going to the trouble caused more trouble."

"Ah!" West exclaimed. He leaned forward in his chair and grinned at Faith. "Now we're getting somewhere. But what trouble could letting them struggle cause?"

"Well, they'd call for help. Or they'd escape. They would be able to identify him."

"Maybe, but I think it's even simpler than that."

Faith thought a moment. Their killer was trying to achieve immortality. Eternal life. The idea that someone could believe in something so foolish was ludicrous, but Faith had met many killers insane enough to believe many ludicrous things.

So, let's say this killer was a true believer and really thought that he would gain eternal life by following this ritual. Once he had eternal life, nothing would matter, really. He could go to prison. He could be announced to the world to be a murderer, and so what? He'd outlive everyone and everything. He could languish in prison for a thousand years and walk from the rubble when the society that imprisoned him collapsed.

But until that point, the ritual had to be completed. Otherwise, this was all for nothing.

The ritual was what mattered. The Magnum Opus.

"They'd interrupt the ritual," she said, "and they'd make it far more difficult for him to complete it."

"Yes!" West shouted, excitement pouring from his eyes and crazed grin. "That's the answer. You see, Faith, killers don't kill because we enjoy death. Even the ones that enjoy death don't really enjoy it in that unadulterated form. There's always a reason. For Trammell, it was the delight of watching little things bleed. For me, it was the knowledge that I had utter and complete power over my victims. For Kenneth Langeveldt, it was a chance to pretend that his past mistakes hadn't taken from him the only thing that truly mattered.

"And for this killer, it's the fear of death that motivates his taking of life. He must complete this ritual. He must survive.

"But he also has self-control. He doesn't act wantonly because he knows he will be caught. No, he prepares carefully. He ensures that he leaves no trace of himself behind. He chooses victims who are separate from the herd, and he culls them swiftly. I daresay the most frustrating part of his method is when he strips them of their clothes. Imagine the fear in his mind as he struggles to unbutton, untie or unzip an article of clothing, the muffled curses as they snag on a fingernail or a stone, the furtive glances over his shoulder as he finally tears the underwear off and can get to the important part of the ritual.

"Your killer is a coward, Faith. You're not wrong. But it's not his victims he fears. It's failure."

He grinned. "In that way, he is much like you. You never feared Trammell. Not the death he would bring you, anyway. You feared being made to feel smaller than he was. You never feared the pain I would cause you. You feared being unable to stop me. You don't fear this killer. You fear that he'll beat you, that he'll complete the Magnum Opus and leave you with nothing more than the chance to clean up his mess."

Faith ignored West's feeble attempts at goading her. She found that increasingly easy to do the longer he languished in the prison she had sent him to. "I think I have what I need. Thank you, West."

She expected the West avatar to shout in rage at her for ignoring him, but he only laughed. "I'll see you soon, Faith. Very soon."

"You're in prison," she retorted. "You won't see me except in your own nightmares."

"I have many names, Faith. Many faces." As though to prove his point, his body twisted, bulging and growing until the creature that stood before her wasn't Franklin West but the hulking seven-foot giant Jethro Trammell. "I am Legion," he said in Jethro's lilting tenor. "And feel free to imprison me as much as you want. I'll only show up again with a new face and a new name."

His smile faded. "And make no mistake. I will break you."

***

Faith woke to Turk licking her face. She sighed and sat up, ruffling the dog's fur. "Sorry, boy. Was I making noise in my sleep again?"

"Yeah, you were," Michael's voice called. She looked over to see him tying his shoes. "It sounded like you were having a really good dream. Judging by the look on your face, I'm going to guess it wasn't as fulfilling as it sounded."

She rolled her eyes and decided not to rise to his bait. "I think we should explore the alchemy side."

He frowned. "Isn't that what we're doing?"

"No. Not really. We're looking at the killer. I think we should look at the ritual."

"The ritual? Yes. The rubedo comes next."

"Yes, but I mean holistically. The killer wants eternal life. That informs every decision he makes. He takes public transportation because he doesn't want to risk his car being seen near the crimes."

"Or he doesn't have one," Michael suggested.

"Maybe," she admitted, "but he also chooses victims who are alone and kills them before they can call for help. He moves quickly, does what he needs to do, then vanishes. There's no lingering to admire his work and no lingering to admire or ‘enjoy' his victims."

"So he doesn't want to get caught. That doesn't seem all that esoteric to me."

"My point is that he's trying to keep himself from dying." A thought occurred to her. "I think he might be terminally ill. I think he's trying to complete this ritual because he thinks it's his only chance."

"I get what you're saying, but what exactly should we be doing differently?"

"We need to learn more about alchemy. We need to understand the philosophy thoroughly to get a better idea of who our killer is."

"So you want to go back to talk to Dr. Cranston?"

She nodded. "I think that's a good place to start."

He shrugged. "Well, that's a better idea than my complete lack of ideas. I'll call the university."

Faith changed quickly. Michael glanced her way once, then hurriedly looked away. Faith hadn't stripped completely naked, but she felt a blush climb her cheeks. She'd changed in front of him without thinking. She wasn't trying to catch his eye, but she should have gone to the restroom or at least warned him to look away.

Well, she could worry about that little trespass later. She needed to catch a killer right now, not explore her latent feelings for her best friend.

Michael hung up the phone just as Faith finished dressing. "Is it safe to turn around now?" he asked, a little testily.

"Yes, sorry. I didn't think."

After a brief pause, he said, "Fair enough. Maybe we both agree to change in the bathroom from now on, though."

"Fine with me," she said. "Again, sorry."

"No worries. Anyway, I called the university. Cranston's out of town today. He'll be back in two days. We can wait for him, or we can talk to another instructor, Nina Verbeck. She's a historian, but she's working on a book on alchemical traditions."

"That works for me," Faith said. "A fresh perspective would be nice."

"Perfect. I'll give her a call."

He dialed the number and Faith tried to imagine her killer as a sick, terrified, desperate man rather than a calculating murderer. It strained credulity, but Faith had encountered killers of that sort before. When pushed far enough, people would do anything to save their own life.

Even take the lives of others.