The dead girl was wearing a torn winter jacket and her eyes were wide open. Blood was still seeping from her bloodied and torn neck. What little blood that had dried was matted in her hair. The freshly done hair was a mess now, the black color in stark contrast to her ashen skin. There were browning leaves on her face and blood had been smeared away from her neck wound. The white coat was slowly getting colored red as the blood soaked into it. The green in her unseeing eyes was brought our by the light blue dress that scarcely covered her body. Her stilettos matched the color of her dress, but they too were torn and sullied by blood and dirt.
Detective Cynthia Hawthorn looked solemnly at the body of the girl. She shivered slightly as she stared at the dead, peaceful eyes. It was an unnatural peace that seemed to radiate from the corpse itself. A quick once over revealed that she was a teenager, probably around seventeen or eighteen. Wealthy too, Cynthia thought as she tugged disapprovingly at the skimpy dress. It felt like silk, flowing like water between the fingers. The frozen earth clung to the dead child as Cynthia pushed her head aside for only a moment. The tear was probably due to a knife. The slices were jagged, making the flesh around it pucker and shrivel in the air. She swabbed the area and the palms of her hands, placing them in evidence bags.
Cynthia prodded the body. Nothing was broken and she was still warm. Couldn't have been dead for less than eight hours. Experimentally, Cynthia pulled at the girl's arms. They barely moved. Cynthia pulled out her notebook and wrote down her notes. Victim: young teenage girl. Possibly high school student. Dead less than eight hours but more than three. Knife wounds to the neck, around the jugular vein. Cause of death: knife wounds. Cynthia sighed and put her handheld notebook in her back pocket, grunting as her stiff muscles reacted to her standing. She motioned to the body crew, indicating that they could take the body.
She fanned out, looking for a weapon or any clues to her where she had been going. Cynthia had already frisked the girl for any credit cards or identification. There had not been anything to help her. She pushed aside the barely clad branches of the surrounding shrubs, searching the undergrowth for a weapon. She pawed the earth, not feeling anything. She frowned, moving about with her hands to the ground. The cold dirt caked her fingers and slid under her nails. A couple of the lower branches scraped across Cynthia's face but not enough to cut the flesh.
She heard the eerie zip as the body bag closed over the beautiful face of the victim. Cynthia stopped moving, folding her dirt encrusted hands and bowing her head in respect for the dead. She stayed like that for a moment then continued about her search. Behind her, she heard a camera clicking with large pauses in between. Cynthia glanced over her shoulder to see an officer following her and taking pictures of the scene. She must have spent hours groveling in the dirt. Her hands were caked in layers of dirt that were cracking. The knees of her jeans were as filthy as her hands. She rolled back onto her heels and put her hands on her knees. With a grunt of pain, Cynthia stood to her full height.
Cynthia was five foot three inches with the lifts in her shoes. She was slightly self-conscious about her height. Her frizzy, curly brown hair was in tight ringlets, framing her face and pulled back into a tight bun. Icy blue eyes sparked with an inner lightning if she was contradicted. She had narrow shoulders and a thin face but a stubborn attitude. She didn't look too particularly strong but all of her friends knew that size didn't mean anything.
Cynthia sighed in irritation as she headed back to the officer that had followed her, Mark Stewards. Mark was huge where Cynthia was small but he wasn't the brightest crayon in the box. He was loyal like a Labrador retriever and, no matter how badly he mangled the job, he would always report to his superior. Seeing her approach, he stood straight, bring his six-foot frame to its fullness. Cynthia craned her neck up to see him. Mark handed over the camera. Cynthia nodded to him without saying a word.
She checked her bag that held the evidence bag, making sure the evidence was still there. She knew officers who had lost the evidence at the crime scene. She pulled out her car keys, hitting the lights button. A yellow Porche flashed its lights at her midst the sea of black police cars and flashing lights. The yellow color put her in a much better mood as she climbed into her car. As the key slid into the ignition, Cynthia glanced back to the horrific scene, wishing she could have done something to prevent it.
There was nothing she could do, however, to change the past. Cynthia started her car, pulling out of the field of cars and onto the road. Traffic in the highway froze her in her tracks. Cynthia shouted a couple choice oaths at her wheel and sat back, furious. As she sat in it, she contemplated the recent uproar. When the first girl had been found dead in the woods, only a few officers had been dispatched to investigate the scene. But over the past month, a new body appeared in a different location all over town every week. There were a total of five bodies, six now. Cynthia had only been called out on the newest body. She wasn't high up on the list of detectives. It didn't surprise her that she'd finally been called.
From what Cynthia understood, each of the girls was no older than high school students. All of them were found to be parents to police officers or a parent to some law enforcer. She sighed as her car inched forward. Her exit was coming up. She took the exit and traffic got considerably better. Headquarters was not a very tall building. Tiny windows of tinted glasses adorned the front of the building. The door was steel and uninviting. The word police was stamped across the door.
The building contained four floors, one of them being a basement. On the top floor, the boss' office resided along with the more important detectives. The middle floor consisted of map rooms and black rooms for picture development. The last floor visible to the eye held the jail cells for lesser criminals as well as the general communications. The basement held every single machine used for identification. It also held the morgue and autopsy room.
Cynthia drove into the parking lot, sliding into one of the spaces towards the front that wasn't marked handicapped. She took her key out of the ignition, opening the car door. She reached into the passenger seat, grabbing the bag with the swabs and the camera. She set her face in a stern expression as she strode toward the door. The polished steel door creaked open at her touch and she continued into the lobby.
Cream-colored walls matched the white tiles of the floor. Celtic designs danced around the floorboards. The receptionist and criminal filer sat behind an expansive mahogany desk. Her pink pumps were on the desk as she reclined in her chair. The woman sitting behind it was around eighteen, wearing a low-cut shirt and designer jeans. Her blonde curls were held away from her face with a pink polka-dotted hair band. She was reapplying make-up, not caring about the atmosphere around her.
Lined up in chains were some men that stood against the wall opposite the two women. They began cat calling, some outright grabbing their crotches and smiling suggestively. Cynthia sighed and went to face the receptionist.
"Melia," Cynthia said levelly. The blonde glanced up and smirked as she returned to her facial appearance. Cynthia frowned and slammed her hand onto the desk. The sound echoed for several seconds in the room and was followed by male shouts of approval. Melia jumped, dropping her mascara brush and the compact. She glared up at the older woman, her polished nails clacking on the wood.
"Geez, Cynthia, one day you're gonna give someone a heart attack," Melia snapped as she stooped to gather up the fallen items.
"Do be quiet, Melia, you're causing a scene," Cynthia retorted.
"Cat fight! Cat fight!" The men cheered behind them. Cynthia sighed as she gave Melia a level gaze. Now was not the time to be getting into petty arguments. There were too many things going on.
"Where is the Boss," Cynthia asked, attempting to keep her voice even.
"If must know, he's in his office where he's been for the past couple days," Melia snapped, flipping her blond curls over her shoulder. Cynthia frowned but said no more to the receptionist. She turned to face the catcalling men once more. She ignored them when she came face to face with a tall, steel box. Normally, there would be a stairwell there.
"Melia," Cynthia called over her shoulder not taking her eyes off the box.
"Hmmm?" The younger woman's tone hinted she'd gone back to the task of applying make-up.
"Where are the stairs?"
"Oh, they were removed," Melia replied off-handedly, "There is still the stairwell down in Doc's Hall but the rest is all connected by elevators." Doc's Hall was the part of the building that led to the morgue and identification rooms as well as the black room. It would take some time to get to the stairs and up to see the boss. Cynthia stared at the elevator before her.
"Stairs are probably not the best option if you want to go see the boss," Melia added almost as an after thought.
"I was afraid of that." She worked hard to keep the terror from her voice. Slowly, Cynthia tore her eyes from the polishes steel and looked at the button panel. Tentatively, she pushed the button with the up arrow on its face. There was a whir of mechanics, the haunting, grating noise causing Cynthia to shudder. A tolling bell rang ominously, telling all of its arrival. With a dry rasp, the door slid open. Timidly, Cynthia entered the elevator, the doors sliding shut behind her.
Panic seized her mind, icy fingers squeezing her heart. Hurriedly, she slammed her finger onto the button labeled 3. Slowly, the elevator jerked into motion. Cynthia's heart hammered in her chest, her breath coming in short gasps. A cold sweat broke out on her forehead, her knuckles white from gripping the handrail. With a slow grinding noise, the elevator stopped moving. Slowly, the doors slid open. Cynthia bolted out of the elevator, her face pale and hands shaking. When her nerves had settled down, she breathed a sigh of relief.
"Have a nice trip?" Cynthia jumped having not heard the man come up from behind her. She spun around to see her boss standing behind her, a grin on his face. Don Nicoli had been the sheriff of the town for over twenty years. He was not a very pleasurable man and had a very small, if any, sense of humor. To see him in a good mood was considered a legend among the detectives. The problem with this was it could be good or bad depending on what he'd found amusing. Cynthia felt the color rise in her face.
"No, sir," she replied abruptly, "I did not enjoy that. When did the stairs get removed?" Don laughed at her. She felt her face burn brighter.
"They were pulled out some time ago but that isn't important. What did you find?" Don's smile fell rapidly. Cynthia locked eyes with a twin pair of green lasers. She nodded grimly.
"Victim was a young woman, most likely in her late teens, pale skinned and black hair. I didn't find a murder weapon or any form of identification. Dress and coat were torn, suggesting a struggle." Don frowned, clasping his hands behind his back. He grunted once before beginning to walk away. Cynthia followed, matching his long strides.
"A DNA swab might give me the identification of either the girl or her killer. I also have images of the scene for analysis." Don refused to look at her for a time until both of them stood outside his office. He looked up at her. Cynthia instantly noticed his body language screamed of someone caught in a lie. His eyes betrayed an untold mystery. Don opened the door, ushering her in. Cynthia walked in to the office, simple red carpet and wood paneled walls. A wood desk was the first to greet her. Behind it sat a high-backed leather chair
"Sir, with all due respect," Cynthia said slowly, "I do believe I have the right to know. I am on the case, after all."
"Get the DNA identified and images developed then report back to me immediately," Don said briskly, ignoring her inquiry. Cynthia stared at him for a moment before spinning on her heel and leaving, muttering darkly. She was still muttering when she entered the elevator. As soon as the elevator stopped, Cynthia bolted out of it, badly shaken and pale. One of the men in white lab coats noticed her and headed in her direction.
"Hey, Cynthia! In a hurry," the man was grinning, his eyes alight with laughter. She glared up at him. He laughed openly, offering her a hand which she gratefully took. When she managed to scrape together some form of composure, Cynthia handed him the envelope with the swabs inside. Despite her efforts to calm herself, her breaths still came in little gasps.
"Don't like elevators, huh," the man snickered. Cynthia glared at him.
"Hush you up, Xiang." Cynthia felt a grin spread across her face. She couldn't help it. His laughter was contagious. Xiang weighed the envelope in his hand.
"I need that identified as fast as you can," she said to regain his attention.
"I can have it ready for you in two hours," Xiang replied without looking up, "That enough time or to slow?"
"Should be plenty. I have to develop these pictures." Xiang nodded. He turned, making his way to one of the many machines lining the walls. Cynthia made her way up the stairs to the black room. She'd almost cried in happiness when she saw them. By the time she came back out, Cynthia was frustrated but had the pictures. She made her way back down the steps to find Xiang waiting for her.
"Alright, the vic was a seventeen year old by the name of Leah Conan. No poisons were administered and no pills in her stomach. She doesn't have a criminal record to speak of," Xiang paused, watching Cynthia's face as he handed over his findings, "We need to call her parents, though." Cynthia nodded absent-mindedly as she glanced over the data n her hands.
"Have Sandra call the parents and let them see the body after the doc is done with them. I'm going up to the boss."
"Better you than me. I've heard he's been n a good mood, though."
"Don't remind me." Cynthia smiled at Xiang as a farewell before turning back toward the stairs. She took them quickly, not stopping her stride until she reached Don's door. With a quick, reassuring breath, Cynthia opened the door. Don sat behind his desk. He glanced up at her.
"Well," his voice had an edge to it. Cynthia passed the data she'd gathered from Xiang to Don.
"No poisons and no pills. Vic's name was Leah Conan." Cynthia watched Don's face. His expression was unreadable.
"And?" He pressured. Cynthia frowned but continued with her report.
"Vic was dead for less than eight hours. Body was still in rigor mortis stage. Cause of death is currently unknown. Bodies have yet to be examined."
"That's where you come in," Don cut her off, "I want you to go to the morgue and examine the bodies of the girls we have found." Cynthia felt the color drain from her face. She swallowed hard.
"You want me to examine six, dead girls?" Don's gaze was hard, the humor from earlier completely gone.
"Clock's ticking, Cynthia." With that, he turned back to his paperwork. Cynthia made her way down the steps and back to the lab. She stared at the whitewashed door labeled MORGUE in large, gothic letters. Suppressing a shudder, she pushed open the door. Doctor Larri Jenks glanced up, her glasses sliding down her nose. She grinned before beckoning to Cynthia.
"Hiya, Cytnhi! The bodies are right this way. All are female homo sapiens and all within the ages of seventeen to eighteen. Cause of death is simple," Larri looked up at Cynthia as she folded the wings of her bat spectacles, "Blood loss but from where, well, I haven't gotten a good look yet. I was told to wait for you."
"Thank you very much, doctor," Cynthia managed. Her stomach rolled over. She could deal with a dead body but a decaying dead body was something else. Len looked over her shoulder and snickered. Cynthia glared at her as she snapped on the latex gloves.
"Squeamish around the dead?" Larri teased, "They won't mind." Cynthia let that pass as the six dead girls were laid out in front of them. Each girl was different. The first was a busty blonde but the next was African American and the one after that was brunette and Asian. Cynthia tugged at her hair in frustration. At the end of the aisle was her victim, Leah Conan. With her freshly cleaned, Cynthia could clearly see the cause of death. A deep laceration in her neck that was only ran the length of her jugular vein. Larri started on the opposing side, bent close to the bodies to get a better view. Cynthia fought down bile as she bent nearer to the body of her victim. On closer inspection, the single laceration became five smaller slashes. Five slashes that formed an upside down pentagram. The tip of it was elongated but only slightly. Cynthia cataloged the pentagram.
"Hey, Cynthi, you might wanna look at this," Larri called from the other side of the room. Cynthia straightened slowly, heading over to the doctor. Larri was pointing to the blonde's neck. The blonde had the same cuts in her neck that Leah had.
"My vic had the same wounds. Think it's consistent?" Cynthia stood slowly, trying not to fall when the blood rushed out of her head. Larri regarded her coolly.
"We'd better find out or we're both out of a job," Larri commented. After some time, the two women glanced back up at each other. They nodded to each other, confirming what they had found. Cynthia looked at the bodies of the girls. She shuddered slightly as she tried to get the cricks out of her back. She felt like she'd been examining the bodies for hours. She glanced at the clock and frowned. It was late.
"I've got to get home," Cynthia groaned.
"Oh, right, with Celene being a teenager now. That's cruel of Don!" Larri exploded in mock anger, "Having you examine all of this with a kid of your own. You get going, I'll finish up here." Cynthia smiled her thanks as she left the morgue in a hurry. Up the stairs and down the hall she raced until she ran almost head first into Don. Her boss glared at her.
"Well?" He demanded. Cynthia frowned but it only lasted a moment.
"Each girl had a satanic symbol slashed into their jugular vein. Not all of them were catholic; the logs say each one was different in religion. Killer might have been sexist but not racist. He uses a knife that we can't even find. The pieces aren't falling into place. What am I missing, sir?" Cynthia watched his expression. He looked weary.
"We aren't sure. What we do know is that there is a group of killers but we don't know their motives," he said slowly, "There are reports of loud, rancorous shouts by the old church but no one knows for sure if they're just kids goofing around or something pertaining to the case. My suggestion is lay low." Don had just politely told her she was off the case. Cynthia worked hard to keep a scowl off her face.
"I'll keep that in mind, sir," she replied though gritted teeth, "Now, I need to get home, if you'll excuse me." Don didn't move or speak as Cynthia walked away. Cynthia had wanted to shout at him, bellow out her rage but he was the boss. She had no say in anything. She got into her yellow car, the color failing to improve her mood. She avoided most of the night traffic by taking back roads to get home.
The apartment complex was shabby, the roof needing to be replaced and the parking lot was riddled with pot holes. The old bricks wept with mortar and their once brilliant color has faded to dull red. Cynthia parked further out than she would have liked. However, she had no complaints to the desk as she entered the complex. An old, beaten-up elevator stood dejectedly at the end of the hallway. She ignored it, the dented, dirt-stained doors sending chills down her spine. She took the stairs quickly, not wanting to keep her daughter waiting. Her apartment was a mess, papers and clothes scattered across the wood floorboards. A magnificent aroma drifted in the air.
"You're late," a voice said crossly. Cynthia turned to face her mirror image. Instead, however, of Cynthia's typical bob, the younger version had her hair bound in a black braid that fell down her back. She glared at her mother but a smile betrayed her. Cynthia smiled at her daughter.
"It's my house. I'm allowed to be late," she replied sweetly to her daughter's failed frown.
"Oh, but mother dearest, you made me have to cook for myself. You know how much I loathe kitchen work."
"My poor, mistreated daughter." Cynthia patted Celene's cheek, "Did you remember to clean up your mess? You poor, old, decrepit mother can't afford to clean up after you." Celene pouted but retreated into the kitchen. Cynthia laughed, sitting at the table. She pulled out the envelope that had the images of the dead girls. Carefully, she spread out the images, examining them. A pale arm pointed at one of the images, the one of Leah.
"I know her. Her name's Leah. She's really popular in my grade." Celene regarded her mother with worried eyes, "Why do you have a picture of her?" Cynthia knew she wouldn't have to answer. Celene paled as tears welled in her eyes. Weeping, she fell into her mother's arms. Cynthia crooned to her daughter, stroking her hair. When Celene's sobs had subsided, Cynthia pulled her away.
"I know all these girls," Celene whispered, pointing to them in turn, "That's Jade and Laura. I recognize the others but I don't remember their names."
"Are they all in your class," Cynthia wondered as she hung her pistol on the coat rack.
"Yeah, they should be n the yearbook…hey," Celene sounded worn out, "I'm just…gonna go to bed, 'k?" Cynthia hugged her daughter tight, wiping away the few tears that fell from her daughter's face.
"Go ahead, hon." Celene gave her mother a grateful look as she made her way to her room. Cynthia looked at the albums and yearbooks they had. Sighing, she pulled out Celene's and thumbed through it. She stopped when she saw her daughter's face. Her eyes scanned down the page, looking at the smiles frozen in ink. Scrawled in neat, cramped writing was little blurbs about the people. Cynthia frowned, placing the book back when she heard the sound of shattering glass. Cynthia grabbed her pistol, switching off the safety. A piercing scream twisted Cynthia's gut. Celene. She bolted to her daughter's room to find it empty. Shards of broken glass lay strewn across the floor. Cynthia ran out of the room, picking up her phone. Her mind half numb with panic, she dialed Don Nicoli's number.
"This had better be good, detective," Don growled. Cynthia could feel the tears welling but bit her tongue. She didn't want to show weakness.
"My daughter has just been kidnapped. I'm going after her."
"No, you won't." Don's tone cut through her like a knife. Her anger flared.
"My daughter might have just been kidnapped by the killers and you're telling me to sit on the side," she fought to keep her tone level.
"No. I'm telling you that you need to wait for back up."
"Send them to the church. I'll start there." Cynthia started toward the door, grabbing her gun's holster and strapping it on.
"Best of luck." The line went dead. Cynthia placed the phone on the counter, trading it for her cell. At a run, she bolted down the steps and out to her car. For once, she hated owning the flashy, yellow vehicle. However, that was the least of her worries. She threw the car into motion, forgetting. She raced down the side roads, using the fastest routes possible. She glanced at her speedometer. Eighty-five. Not fast enough. She pushed the car to ninety-five. In the distance, she saw the old church. She slammed on the breaks causing the car to skid and spin. Cynthia felt the bitter taste of fear. Luck, however, was on her side. The car refused to flip but came to a noisy stop. She waited for some time but nothing happened. Her fingers flew to her side, checking that her pistol rested against her ribs. When she was sure that it was, she leapt from the car, cursing profusely when her seat belt kept it from being successful. Freeing herself, Cynthia sprinted up the road, not stopping to pant for breath.
She zigzagged down the road, careful to dodge obstacles in her way. She was not going to let her daughter die. When she had to slow down by the creek due to trees, she stopped. Cynthia's hand rested on the rough bark of the tree as she panted for breath. She looked around, noticing the building was white and parts of it were piles of rubble. The altar was the only part of the whole building that wasn't crumbling. There wasn't any sign of her daughter. Panic seized her mind as she paced. Where was the back up?
"Great," Cynthia moaned, nearly weeping. "Now what?" She sat on the ground, not wanting to trust her weight on the rotting benches. Her head fell in her hands and tears fell down her face. Hope was flickering and dying in her heart. Suddenly, muffled voices arose from under Cynthia's feet, making her jump.
"Hurry up," A gruff male voice hissed, "I want to get this ritual started."
"Shut up, Mitchell," Another male voice snapped, "Just because you get to-"
"Shut up the both of you," yet another voice chimed in, "Or I'll skin you alive."
"Now that's just rude and uncalled for," The first voice stated acidly. Cynthia pressed her ear against the stone floor, straining to hear more. She had to know everything.
"Shut up, Mitch," The second voice growled.
"Come and make me you yellow bellied-" There was the sound of a scuffle. Then silence. Cynthia began to stand when the voices rose again.
"Told you, you couldn't shut me up," Mitchell gloated. There were cheering, adolescent whoops that answered this statement. Then there was sudden silence.
"What is the meaning of this," A new voice said calmly. Though his tone is calm, Cynthia immediately detects a dangerous note. This had to be the leader because Mitchell started to backpedal.
"Nothin'. Just getting rid of some energy so as to be better-"
"Shut up," The boy cut him off, "Where is she?" Cynthia's muscles tensed. She lay flat on the floor, trying desperately to sink into the floor. Was her daughter down below? And where was that back up?
"She's right here," There was a mighty creak and then a light thunk. An eerie silence followed. Suddenly, a blood-curdling scream pierced through it like a knife.
"Help me! Help me," A girl's voice screeched frantically, "Mother! Help me!" Cynthia felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. Celene.
"Edmund, silence the sacrifice," The leader's voice was cold. The screaming was cut short and Celene started to whimper.
"Why," Celene whimpered. Cynthia had heard enough. Cynthia hunted for a light piece of wood. When she found one, she lightly tapped a series of sounds. She paused, waiting. Celene must have heard for she started screaming again.
"Elevator! Peach! Coconut! Left," Celene babbled, "Ice! Ratla!"
"Stop your gibbering," Mitchell demanded. Celene ignored him until she was forced into silence again. Cynthia let out a sigh of relief. Celene had remembered. Elevator to the left of the altar. She glanced around, not seeing back up anywhere. Fine. She'd go on alone.
"Great," Cynthia grumbled, "I just love elevators." She walked to the altar and saw drag marks within the dust and debris. She followed them until before her stood the old metal death trap. It was like an elevator you found in a mine shaft. It was a steel, see-through cage with two levers. Red rust clung to almost every inch of it. Cynthia pried the doors open and slipped inside. The levers had arrows next to them and she instinctively pushed the down picture. She flushed and pulled the lever, flinching as she waited for the loud creak that would give her away. It started with the gentle whirr of machinery. The boys must have oiled the gears to keep the neighbors from being to suspicious. The voices hadn't stopped.
"What are we gonna do 'bout her mom," a voice wondered. Silence followed the question.
"Get her phone," The leader demanded. There was a rustle of fabric and then a series of small clicks. Suddenly, Cynthia's phone burst into song. The notes of 'Freebird' pounded through the shaft. Hurriedly, she silenced it, praying the boys hadn't heard.
"Nothing."
"Good. Prepare the sacrifice," The leader demanded. Cynthia felt red hot rage boil in her veins. She was blind with rage and barely noticed that the elevator had started slowing down. She did, however notice when she'd stopped moving. Her vision cleared and she saw stone walls surrounding her. Panic flooded into Cynthia's mind as if she had plunged into a bucket of ice. Sweat formed on her brow and her heart hammered in her chest.
"Oh, dear Lord of heaven," Cynthia stammered, "I'm going to die."
"That should keep the mother occupied. If we're lucky she'll shoot herself," A voice from below chuckled. If Cynthia had been fine, she would have gone white in rage. Instead, she went white with terror. She sank to the bottom of the cage, curling up into a ball.
"Mom! Help me! Just pu-" Celene's shout was cut off. Cynthia was snapped back into her senses. Celene was going to die unless she did something.
"Peanut butter! Cheese cracker! Liver," Celene screamed. Celene kept repeating the same words but n a different order each time. Cynthia's panicked mind raced to make sense of her daughter's ramblings. Liver seemed important. Cynthia's mind spun, her heart beating much to fast. Liver sounded like-
"Lever," Cynthia murmured. She rose shakily to her feet and grasped the lever. She pulled hard on it and the elevator moved again.
"The hell?" Shouts of astonishment wafted up to her place. The elevator slowed again but Cynthia pulled on the lever. She wasn't going to let them trap her here. There are no emergency buttons on a lift elevator. She saw a room slowly coming from beneath the stones that had been entertaining her. She drew her .45 pistol and switched of the safety. The room came into view and six terrified boys cowered in fear. Their leader stood calmly with Celene. He held a knife at her throat. Cynthia recognized him. It's hard to forget the face of the boy your daughter is dating.
"Timothy," Cynthia said coldly, "Let go of Celene and I won't shoot."
"Cynthia," Timothy commented casually, "you've never fired that weapon even at top rank criminals." Cynthia growled, firing once into the ceiling.
"Convinced?"
"No," Timothy smirked. He dug the knife into Celene's neck, drawing a thin line of blood. "Why would you shoot at a poor teenage boy?" Cynthia fired, not aiming at anything vital. The bullet penetrated his upper thigh.
"Any poor bastard that holds my daughter for ransom is going to lose either his life or his manhood," Cynthia hissed, "Drop the knife or I shoot." Timothy dropped the knife in shock at the wound he received.
"Celene, pick up the knife."
"Do I get to stab him?" Celene shot Timothy a look of pure hatred and malice. She picked up the knife but refused to move, pointing the blade at Timothy.
"Hands behind your head, all of you," Cynthia called in a loud voice. She was finished playing games. Timothy laughed wickedly.
"They won't listen to you, you pathetic cop," Timothy laughed. He reached behind the steel altar behind him. Cynthia saw the hint of a semi-automatic rifle. In three quick steps she was in point blank range. Her hand flashed out, the pistol glittered in the light as it smashed into his skull. He dropped like a rock, unconcious. Cynthia stooped and picked up the rifle.
"Hands behind your head and face the wall," The guns danced between the six potential targets. They cowered in fear.
Celene, call Don on my phone please. It's in my pocket." Cynthia didn't want to lower her weapons. Celene dug around in her mother's pocket until she found it. She pulled it out, flipping though the contacts and dialing Don. A look from her mother confirmed she was the one to hold the phone while Cynthia spoke.
"Don," Cynthia said smugly into the phone, "I've apprehended the criminals and they have a weapons cache. Hostage is alive and well. By the way, where was that back up?"
"Good work, Cynthia," Don's voice was proud, "They should be there in about two minutes." The line went dead. Cynthia nodded to her daughter. Celene hung up the phone, glaring at the prone body of her ex-boyfriend.
"So, do I get to stab him or what?"
"No but you can hand-cuff him," Cynthia told her daughter bluntly, keeping the weapon pointed at the boys' backs. Celene pouted but handed over the knife.
"Hey, man," a boy stammered, "we ain't goin' to prison are we?"
"I believe you might." Cynthia said coldly, "I might be able to put in a good word for you if you talk."
"I'll talk," Another shouted, panicked, "He said somethin' 'bout needing the blood of a virgin innocent to clear away the traces of what we did." A murmur of agreement went throughout the boys.
"Celene was supposed to be the last one before we got it," Mitchell stated.
"Got what," Celene demanded icily.
"I dunno, but it had to be good."
"Idiot," Celene muttered, taking up a seat by the elevator. She jumped as is suddenly began moving sluggishly upward.
"Well, boys," Cynthia said cheerily, "Looks like you'll be finding out if murder was worth the mystery."