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Pen adds the information to the board. “We saw the black dog that tore her apart, so we know this isn’t a random animal attack.”
She touches the newest pin on the map. “That brings us to Lethoba.”
“His leaf-mates reported that it happened at seven twenty-one this morning. Which rules out the deaths all taking place during the five o’clock hour.” Sharpe rolls a lighter between his fingers, making it vanish and reappear in his other hand. “Same method of killing. Witnesses saw the black dog.”
“Vicki and Lethoba shared a link.” Pen turns to Meredith. “Have you found any point where Shawe’s path crossed with Vicki’s? She could be the common denominator.”
Meredith shakes her head, her eyes fixed on the screen before her. The soft glow from the monitors casts a pale light on her tense face. “No, but I’ll keep looking.”
“Or the commonality has yet to be revealed.” Darius stares at the information plastered on the walls. “We need another body.”
“Another body?” Sharpe whirls toward Darius, the lighter vanishing from his fingers and not reappearing. “That’s what we’re trying to prevent.”
“I’m merely stating facts.” Darius maintains a composed demeanor, his gaze steady under the weight of Sharpe’s fury. “Each death adds a variable that will help us decipher the pattern we’re missing.”
“Collecting bodies is not an option.” Tension sharpens my tone.
“In an ideal situation, it is not. But in this case, it is most likely an inevitable outcome.” Darius folds his hands on the table. “We should remain pragmatic.”
“Pragmatic,” Sharpe echoes, his eyes narrowing on the ignis demon. “There’s a fine line between pragmatism and callousness, though I’m not sure you know the difference.”
Darius’s brow arches. “You already thanked me for killing you. Don’t use that now against us just because you’re upset.”
“Sometimes pragmatism and callousness are one and the same.” Pen’s words cut through the growing tension. “Darius isn’t suggesting we be idle and wait for more to die, but unless we can figure out a way to identify the future victims, we will most likely see another body.”
“One by this evening, if the pattern holds.” Meredith peers over the top of her monitors. “If another murder doesn’t happen before midnight, then we’ve got nothing.”
“I don’t believe that.” Sharpe strides over to the death board. “Meredith, read me the field reports. We must have overlooked some clue.”
Meredith nods, her fingers dancing over the keyboard as she pulls up the files.
Starting with Reverend Shawe, she meticulously goes over the reports, reading them out loud while Sharpe paces back and forth in front of the crime scene wall. His eyes scan the images, seeking patterns that may have eluded him before.
Pen pours herself a coffee and joins us at the table. She sits on Darius’s left, her eyes unfocused as she, too, listens for any nugget of new information that will break the case.
I’ve seen her like this many times, sifting through a difficult problem and prodding out the most reasonable scenario that leaves everyone alive.
But as Meredith moves from one field report to the next, Pen’s fingers drum on her thigh with increasing agitation. She’s not hearing a pattern because we don’t have enough information for her to wiggle one loose.
When Meredith falls quiet, all eyes turn to Sharpe.
After a long silence, she peers over her monitors. “Anything?”
Sharpe stops in front of the murder board, his shoulders slumping. “There’s no pattern.”
“Not true!” Flint rushes into the room, his arms loaded with ancient books. “Sorry, I’m late. Traffic was a beast, but once Reese finishes fixing those portals to the doors downstairs, that will no longer be an issue.”
Eyes bright, Flint strides over to Meredith’s desk and passes her a data drive.
Meredith plugs it into her computer and her eyes widen as a new image pops up on the wall.
Flint drops his books on the table and sweeps his arm toward new image. “I present to you our Jezebel.”
A younger, less strung-out woman appears on the screen, her cheeks rounded and an intelligence in her eyes I’ve never seen before.
Sharpe’s arms cross over his chest. “Yes, we all know who Vicki Brown is and that she’s representing Lust in this apocalypse.”
“Ah, but this isn’t Vicki Brown.” Flint rocks on his heels. “While Xander was pulling books on the eclipse and the Wild Hunt, I got to wondering. How does Vicki Brown keep getting out of jail?”
