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The pleasure principle demands replete gratification, and in surrendering to it, we’re denied something vital in return.
Pain.
The id avoids pain at all costs, and is only opposed by the reality principle, that crucial balance needed to weigh our actions, what acts as a control to our impulses.
I follow behind Kallum, feeling as if I’m still suspended in the free-fall. Yet knowing there are some laws that can’t be broken. It’s only a matter of time before gravity takes hold.
7
CAGED
HALEN
Agents in black suits and earpieces filter through the basement, crowding the space with overpowering scents of cologne and coffee. I suppose it’s a more favorable blend than the urine and feces that lingers beneath the dank air.
Dull fluorescent lights flicker on the ceiling, washing the cinderblock walls in gray light. Like any other basement, the Lipton’s is stacked with clutter. Old vacation supplies. Camping gear. Skis and life vests.
Ritualistic artifacts and jars of human organs.
Kallum and I trail behind Hernandez, following the obstacle course of caution tape and task force members as they bag and tag evidence. Maneuvering around a row of stacked boxes, I glove my hands, way too aware of my lack of underwear in this questionable environment.
According to Hernandez, a rookie agent thought it would be clever to get the son—the intoxicated teenage son—to open the basement door. As the feds can’t legally enter a locked room of a home to conduct a search, Agent Rana was able to secure a search warrant through a judge on the west coast, stating the urgency of the case.
The deeper we journey into the basement, the more pungent the odor. “Where is that smell coming from?”
Hernandez beams his flashlight on the wall across from us. “I suspect the stench has something to do with the makeshift toilet over there.”
I light my phone flashlight to pan the area, landing on a cot tucked into the opposite corner. Black material has been draped across to conceal a small living space.
“Not a bad arrangement where Vince Lipton could hole up,” Hernandez remarks. “If you don’t mind the disturbing murder house feel.”
“How do we know it was him?” I ask, and snap a few pictures before I drop my phone in the tote at my hip.
“Mrs. Lipton confessed as much before her lawyer shut down the questioning,” Agent Rana says as she approaches. Her hair is pinned out of her face, the circles beneath her eyes more pronounced in the garish lighting. “Apparently, she was harboring her brother down here on and off over the years.”
“This is why you wanted eyes on the Liptons,” I say to the agent.
“I’ve had suspicions about how involved certain members of the community are. It’s the psychology of small towns, right?” She arches an eyebrow. “People look up to this family, so how many others have been doing the same as Mrs. Lipton?”
A new degree of respect develops for the lead agent, even as her perceptive gaze bounces between me and Kallum. “It’s nice you both could finally join us,” she says. “Come on. I’ll take you to where the action is.”
Rana directs us toward the far wall where a line of agents and forensic analysts are being funneled. Careful not to disturb any evidence, Hernandez hunkers near an ancient water heater. A section of plywood has been slid away to expose a crawlspace along the floor.
“This connects to a shaft of the mine,” Hernandez explains. “The tunnel is old, probably here since the house was first built. Presumably how Vince was able to come and go without detection.”
“I didn’t think houses this close to the marsh could even have basements,” I say.
Kallum moves closer to my side. “Old money likes to circumvent the rules.”
“That’s an understatement.” Hernandez sweeps aside the material to reveal a section where cinderblocks have been dismantled to create an opening large enough to walk through.
The air changes as we step into the dark space. It’s thinner, colder. Vile. I wrap my arms around my waist, my blouse insufficient to shelter me from the soiled feel.
A single naked bulb hangs from the low ceiling, a cord feeding it power from an unknown source. The gathered task force members work in tense silence, the dark illuminated with a strobe effect of camera flashes to offer glimpses of a gruesome sight.
Like sinking into an oil slick, a tar-like substance adheres to my skin. Nothing about this space feels similar to the previous ritual sites. There’s a sense of malevolence down here that knocks angrily against my bones. It seeps down deep in my lungs until I’m forced to turn my head, seeking a breath not tainted with the stench.
Kallum touches me, just a simple placement of his hand to my forearm, but I lean into the solid feel of him. “This doesn’t seem like Devyn,” I whisper.
