The Violoncellist

by Blaire Raphael

When the BAU gets called to investigate the disappearance of a boy everything seems routine. However, things take a turn for the worse when the boy turns up dead and one of his classmates goes missing. Especially since an old case seems similar..

Prologue

We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of the dream.

Wandering by lone sea breakers, and sitting by desolate streams.

World losers and world forsakers, for whom the pale moon gleams. Yet

we are the movers and the shakers of the world forever it seems.

Arthur O'Shaughnessy (1844-1881)

Burr Oak, Jewell County, Kansas

A quiet shadow swept from the branches of a lone tree and down towards the ground, its eyes fixed on its prey. The tiny rodent's last squeal echoed unheard through the quiet garden, that seemed to slumber peacefully under a blanket of silver-hued moonlight. A gentle breeze danced through leaves and grass, chased shadows over forgotten toys and deserted swings. Stars shimmered in the murky waters of a nearby lake, that lay cradled between the trees which divided the village from the forest.

Another shadow, clad in black and clutching a small doll to its chest, moved almost silently over lush moss and grass, its footsteps silenced by dew and humid earth.

The shadow lingered at the lakeshore for a moment, its head turning quickly from side to side as though to test the air and hone in on its target once more.

An eerie quiet permeated the village as the shadow started again, this time walking briskly, confidently, across streets and lawns, unerringly closing in on its design.

The boy lay silently in his bed, completely still except for the irregular tapping of his fingers on the woollen blanket covering him. His gaze was entranced by the shadows nearby streetlamps and trees painted on the walls and ceiling. A big smile lit his face, his eyes shone with mirth and every now and then, when the wind rearranged boughs and shadows, a quiet chuckle escaped his lips.

The fragrant, sweet smell of jasmine and honeysuckle wafted in through the open window. His fingertips danced in a rhythm only he could hear. Slowly he turned towards the window, his expression unchanging, still filled with wonder and childish delight as unexpected movement and sound caught his attention. Unblinkingly he stared at the doll, whose hands held a music box in the form of a violincello. One of the hands was moving a small bow over tiny chords. A grin blossomed on the boy's face as another hand appeared in the window, beckoning towards him.

Minutes later both, moon and streetlamps, shone into an empty room.