The next thing she remembered, she was waking up in a hospital bed thirty miles away, her father filling out a fake police report about a random attack in a random town they’d never even visited. When they finally left the hospital, it was in a different car.
Charley was fifteen years old.
In all the years that passed, she never had the courage to ask her father or uncle about that day, and they never had the courage to bring it up.
It existed only in her memory, the story written above her hip in a silver scar.
She never found out what happened to the bodies.
She never found out what happened to the car.
She never found out why they’d taken so long with the delivery.
She never found out whether Rudy had killed the second guy, or whether he’d just opened the door before her father shot them both.
She never found out who the men were, or why they’d targeted her.
It was the worst day of her life—worse, even, then the day her father died. And all she had left of it now—aside from the ghosts and the scar—was the name of the client who’d asked for the special delivery.
Alexei Rogozin.
Chapter Forty-Six
city streets run red with blood; ‘crimson city devil’ eludes authorities
August 11, 1972 - The mutilated body of a thirty-nine-year-old Manhattan father of two was found in a service alley on Canal Street in the early morning hours of August 10th. Witnesses who made the grisly discovery claim the man was lying in a pool of blood, with severe lacerations on his neck and shoulder. Police have not made an official statement, but an NYPD officer who agreed to speak on the condition of anonymity confirmed that the death has been ruled a homicide and shares many of the same markers as the previous twenty-seven murders attributed to the so-called Crimson City Devil. Authorities are urging extreme caution and have asked anyone who has information about this or any of the previous crimes to contact them immediately…
Sitting at his desk in the den, Dorian tipped back his scotch and flipped to another article in the bound leather book, each headline carving a fresh wound in his heart.
summer of slaughter earns new york ‘crimson city’ moniker; no end in sight for grisly crime spree.
crimson city devil strikes again.
police exhausted after three-state, six-month manhunt brings no closure on unsolved murders.
Every article had been meticulously clipped and mounted—a gruesome scrapbook created first as a souvenir and saved, later, as a reckoning.
No matter how many times Dorian forced himself through this particular punishment, the gnawing, acidic burn of his endless guilt never receded.
Nor should it.
He opened the top drawer of the desk and removed a spiral notebook, scanning the list of names and related notes he’d been keeping for four decades. He found the one he was looking for on the third page.
Marshall Goldman. Curator, Jewish Historical Society. Son of Landon Goldman, DOD Aug. 10, 1972. Whitfield painting — possible interest?
With a red pen, he made a small check mark next to Marshall’s name, then closed the notebook, slipping it back into the drawer.
One more name,he thought.One more deed.
He tossed the pen onto the desk and reached for his bottle of scotch, pouring himself another drink.
Charlotte D’Amico was a deep, dark well of secrets, but how could Dorian pass judgment when his closet was full of more blood-soaked skeletons than a hundred cemeteries?
His chest tightened with shame. Why had he pushed her so hard tonight?
She’d clammed up after learning about Estas and the demons, refusing to answer his questions, even though it was obvious something about his news had affected her. She’d turned away from his touch, her shoulders trembling, but no matter how many times he asked—demanded—she wouldn’t reveal a thing.
I can’t, she’d said.I’m sorry, Dorian. I just can’t.
