A/N- I accidentally posted an older version of this chapter. This is the edited, correct version. few changes really, but they are important ones. Thanks for reading!
Doomed City: part one
The sun is just setting, dark orange and bloated, bobbing on the harbor horizon as I finally enter the city of Baltimore. I've never liked Baltimore, with its gritty, dirty sidewalks, windy alleys and none of the appeal of Manhattan. The weird mixture of wealth and poverty that changes from street to street makes me feel unbalanced, like you can never get a firm grip on the city; you never know where you stand.
They moved the field office here shortly after Carroll's death, the same time the official manhunt for his followers began. Besides being an awful city Baltimore has a history with Poe, so it seemed a perfect gloomy place to set up operations to track down the nutcases obsessed with him. It's not the quickest drive down from New York, and six traffic filled hours and two red bulls later I turn down grimy Baltimore St, out of the glare of the sunset, and into one of the spaces in front of the long, intimidating Central District Police Station.
The station is an old building that has been recently renovated and my footsteps echo on the shiny black granite while I cross the modern lobby. As I clear through security and into the narrow, glass lined hallways I see a whole group lined up and waiting for me. Their faces are grim and determined, their stance stiff, and they remind me of soldiers heading off to war. They are mostly familiar faces, people Ryan and I worked with while we were trying to locate Carroll's son, Joey, and Turner is there too. He watches me out of eyes that seem to have permanent circles etched around them, and his clothes are wrinkled, his shoulders slumped forward. He looks as if he's barely standing. I've heard rumors he will be leaving in a week or two, having given up his role as lead on the case, and it looks like not a day too soon. I catch his gaze and we exchange weary, understanding nods.
A man in the most tightly tucked shirt I have ever seen rigidly steps out from the front of the line and raises a hand to me. It's huge, and perfectly manicured, like he's the type of guy that keeps his job secure by never leaving the safety of his desk. He's taller than me, probably brushing fifty years old, with graying hair that is closely cropped to his head in a no-nonsense way. His face is like a pit bull, lean and serious, and his suit is immaculate, a dark blue that fits his broad shoulders perfectly. I swear if I bent down I could see my reflection in his shoes.
His hulk-like hand all but smothers mine and I'm surprised that it's rough and worn. I hastily recalculate the man (maybe he has seen some action) as he introduces himself with a perfectly executed, professional-yet-incredibly-intimidating shake.
"Unit Chief Perry, up from Washington just last week." I'm expecting it to come out like a boom, loud and strong, but instead it's almost quiet. It's dripping authority though, almost as if he's forcing you to talk softer by daring you to speak louder than him. "Glad to finally meet you Agent Weston. How's your partner doing?"
"No better, no worse sir." I respond, shrugging and slightly flattered that people see Ryan as my partner. He releases my hand, and nods. So much for the personal portion, I think, as he ushers me down the hallway.
"We received the package sometime this morning. It was initially sorted with the rest of the so-called informant material, until it could be properly authenticated, so it wasn't until an intern un-wrapped it and found your name that we became suspicious. She has played it once, before bringing it directly to me."
He's moving down the hallways at a breakneck speed, his legs taking even but impossibly long strides, and I'm almost forced to run to keep up. His reputation has grown fast, everyone seems to know him on sight and instantly recoils out of his way. "We got nothing from the package it came in, apparently it was dropped off at the station by hand." He continues, barreling on as he speaks and nearly running over a smartly dressed petite blonde woman holding a folder out to him.
"The autopsy report of Taneesha Taylor, sir," she tries to keep her gaze professional and direct as he takes it surprisingly gently out of her hands, but her eyes flick to me momentarily. She's wearing a fitted beige suit with a low cut silky shirt underneath that brings out her bright eyes and makes her look more like a model for business clothes than an FBI agent. Not that I'm complaining. She smiles slightly as she walks away, and it takes me a second to place her before I remember that we shared an absolutely awful date several months earlier. Well I guess not that awful, I think as she looks back and gives me a small wave. I grin back.
"Huh, I went to high school with a Taneesha," I say offhandedly to Perry, still smiling at the woman whose name I can't remember. He looks up from his report, his brown eyes completely serious, and I falter. "Kind of a… an unusual name."
He pauses, as if he's waiting for me to continue, and the smile falls off my face. The moment goes on for entirely too long, before he snaps the folder shut.
"Yes. Well, to business." He says with finality, and points to the briefing room. I shake my head at my own awkwardness and join the others filling in behind him.
"We've had the technical boys take a look at it," he says, closing the door, "although I hear you have some proficiency in that field as well. They assure me that what we are looking at is, in fact, actually Carroll and not some strange composite. We were also able to raise a time stamp on a portion of the video, although there has been a bit of damage to the original tape."
The room is small, containing a cramped office table with six uncomfortable looking chairs pulled up to it, all facing an old TV with a built in VHS player. Perry takes his seat in the middle and slides a battered looking tape in a sealed evidence bag up the table, as three other agents find their chairs around him and Turner sidesteps up to the TV.
The room settles down and becomes tensely quiet as he cuts the ancient machine on, slowly inserting the tape. With a quick glance around, his eyes fall on me and I see a defeated, exhausted look in them that I recognize from my own reflection in the days immediately following Ryan's attack. I remember looking at Ryan that way when the nurses tended to him, as he lay unconscious and helpless in the bed, completely at the mercy of strangers. I return Turner's gaze with a half hearted smile and he coughs, turning back to the TV. With an air of importance, the room holds its breath as he presses play.
Nothing happens.
Turner whips back around and embarrassedly begins to fool with the dials, obviously having trouble finding the correct station for playback. I watch him with growing pity and stifle a yawn. The initial adrenaline rush I received when I got the news about this all-important tape is beginning to fade, especially after a somewhat long drive. Trying not to show my growing boredom, I lean against the wall inside the door and absently fiddle with the peeling green wall paper that is covering the room. Seconds turn into minutes. People begin to chat between themselves, as Turner gets more and more frantic, and I notice even Perry has returned to examining the folder the blonde gave him in the hallway. I wonder irritatingly if this wasn't a huge mistake, and contemplate calling the hospital in New York to check in..
When my cell rings, I almost jump for joy at something to do and I answer without hesitating on the second ring.
There is initial silence and static, and I check my reception. Poor. I hastily move farther down the wall to the only window in the room and try again.
"Hello?" I ask again, peering out the small, dirty window at the darkening city street.
"Hello hello." a voice replies, and the world shudders to a stop.
My mind reels back to a night I visit often in my nightmares. I can still feel the thin plastic cuff biting into my wrists bound tightly behind me, feel the rough wooden chair beneath me; my heart beating wildly against my chest as my eyes follow the gun held in the hand of possibly the world's most notorious serial killer. The flippant sound of his voice, as he puts the barrel against my head and calmly bargains my life for information from Ryan, hasn't changed at all.
"I am surprised by your resilience, Agent Weston." Carroll says, in his drawling english accent that turns my veins to ice, "You are quite the underdog, aren't you? To think you survived that attack in the woods the day poor Debra Parker died. That certainly was a plot twist."
"What the hell-" I stammer out, but Carroll cuts me off.
"You may be wondering why I am sending this to you of all people. Ryan Hardy… well Ryan was a worthy hero, yes, but with him…indisposed… we must turn our attentions onto a new generation and a new story."
In a rush, my blood returns and I feel anger boiling within me. I snap my fingers, trying to get everyone's attention. I point to the phone and mouth 'Carroll' and one of the agents quickly pulls his own phone out to start a trace. Perry raises an eyebrow but calmly waves for me to continue. I turn back to the phone. "Carroll-"
"Shh Shh- this is my favorite part. Go ahead and watch"
"Fixed it," Turner announces proudly, turning to us all as the TV flickers to life and the video begins. His face changes quickly to confusion though, as he sees everyone in the room is facing away from him and staring at me.
But I'm staring at the screen.
It's me.
Walking to the grocery, walking to my car, sitting in the back of an ambulance the night I was beaten by Carroll's guys, drinking coffee, working on my laptop, leaving the hospital in New York… all me. Close ups, long shots, tracking shots, not in any kind of chronological order and all eerily silent. I see myself eat a bagel and chat with another agent. I watch as I run routine errands and slump over an endless array of computers and, worst of all, I watch through a window as I have a quiet conversation with Ryan.
To see Ryan again, awake and lively, hits me like a punch in the stomach.
I unconsciously move closer to the screen as he and I carry on a close discussion I've long since forgotten. In a dimly lit office, we huddle together, debating some aspect of the case. I see myself say something pointedly to him with a smile, and get an even stare back. I watch as he stands, taking a quick drink from his foul-smelling 'water bottle', wearing the same crumpled clothes he never changed, and absently pats me on the shoulder;half-smiling, half-scowling at me as I continue to type, grinning and hunched over my computer.
Hypnotized, my eyes follow him. I feel a rush of emotions crash through me as the mundane moment plays out and I put a hand up to touch the scene, as if I can reach in and pull him out; whole and alive and breathing again- no more wires, no more hospital, no more damned machines.
Abruptly, the image changes to an unfocused crowd.
I pull my hand away as if I've been shocked and take a quick step backwards. I study the screen, confused. I want to see more of Ryan, more of him moving and talking and making dumb heroic decisions and switching back and forth from his stupid vodka to coffee and just, well, being. I wait for him to appear again, but the scene remains the same, jolting and unclear I shake my head and force myself to sit.
As the group on the screen talks to each other animatedly, the image blurs and refocuses until the faces come sharply into view. Those around me murmur worriedly as we see that everyone in the group has on the same, expressionless, simple mask. My eyes snap from one disturbing identical face to the next before the image is jostled, and after a few thrilling seconds of elbows and armpits, the camera is finally secured and we get a clear view of the video's subject.
Conversing quietly and definitely un-masked, is Joe Carroll.
I dimly hear Perry bark out a quiet order as everyone around me gasps. I try to feel surprised, but familiar dread creeps up my spine.
He's sitting in an arm-chair and smiles brightly. He looks beyond the camera for a moment, before nodding and turning his gaze towards us. The room hushes. He beams and spreads his hands wide.
"Hello, hello friends new and old." Carroll begins. "We are about to start another journey together." The film fuzzes out for a second, becoming distorted. Obviously the damage mentioned earlier, I think. His face comes back into focus a moment later. "Now I know we have had our differences. For instance, I think you all to be quite limited in your thinking and you- well let us be honest: you think I am insane." He shrugs, "However, 'I sometimes think we must be all mad and that we shall wake to sanity in strait-waistcoats.'" He winks.
"But to the point: My first book was about the beauty of death. The second was a romance, albeit," another distortion, "-between my wife and me, but sometimes you just have to let the story write itself." He chuckles, and sighs. "This third, and final, will be a coming of age story.
"My friends are finally ready to come into their own and so are you. It is time for you to let go of your hero-worship and become the hero yourself. We must all find our own vision to believe in, and try not be swayed by those that would oppose or censor us." The people behind the masks grow excited while their plastic faces remain disturbingly calm. The image momentarily distorts again to snow before resolving. "You are going to have to learn to be strong, to trust yourself and your instincts. Steele yourself, we have a long road to travel and quite a battle ahead. You see, 'the world seems full of good men," he pauses, before grinning mischievously, "but there are monsters in it.'"
The video ends with Carroll still staring straight at us as snow fills the screen. For a whole minute no one moves, and I listen vaguely to the thumping of my heart. Finally Turner raises a shaky hand and switches off the TV. With a loud cough, Perry assumes control of the room.
"Well people, what do we know?"
It's like he's broken a spell and the room comes roaring to life. People start spouting information like leaky fountains, ('trying to identify-' and 'Cross checking-') and I suddenly remember the phone in my hand. With a start I bring it back up to my ear, but the line is dead. I look to the agent who was tracing the call, but he is engrossed in conversation. I let my hand fall back onto the table, my limbs slacken and I can't seem to find the energy the rest have instantly summoned. I'm not surprised at the sudden re-emergence of Carroll. I think a part of me was never convinced he was really gone. Instead, I'm still reeling from the image of Ryan. I can't get over the sight of him, so drastically different from the lifeless form in the hospital bed, and I'm vividly aware of how much has changed in so little time. I stare absently down at the fake grain of the table in front of me and try to energize my limbs but I feel like I'm moving through cotton.
A helpful agent next to me is chirping incessantly up at Perry. "Nothing from recent hotel or motel transactions either, sir." He continues and Perry nods. "Oh and the phone call wasn't long enough to do a full trace, but we know it originated from a local payphone. We're checking local security footage: ATM's and building cameras might have picked something up." he flits around Perry like a cheery, helpful sparrow. I almost roll my eyes at his enthusiasm.
"Excellent. What about the quote? Which Poe story are we looking at now?" Perry asks, consulting with another agent who has appeared cooperatively at his elbow. His comment stirs me back to life.
"It's not Poe." I mumble. He raises an eyebrow at me and I sigh. "I don't know who it is, but I've spent the last couple months knee deep in his crap and I can tell you that's not Poe."
"Then be sure to find out who it is," he says, "And then join the technical team on the manhunt, they could use another hand. Updates." He gestures wide, encompassing the room before I can respond, "Everyone. As soon as you have them." Clapping his hands, he exits.
It takes me a full ten seconds to register that he's left, and another ten to disentangle myself from the diligent agents bustling about the tiny room. I'm gasping for air as I catch up with Perry, who has made it halfway to the other end of the building already, to his temporary office.
"Chief-" I actually have to slip my foot in the door to stop it from slamming shut. "Chief, I just need a minute." He turns to me with a polite, but firm smile.
"I only have a second," he ushers me inside.
"Sir, I think that I could be more useful in this case. I have first hand knowledge of Carroll and-" I start, but he holds up a hand to cut me off.
"I think I know what you're looking for, but I don't think it's a good idea. After such an obvious threat on your life, it would be best if you take a back seat, Agent. For your own safety, of course." he sits, and begins perusing some folders on his desk.
"Wait, what? What threat?" I ask, completely confused. He continues to read the file in front of him. "The phone call?"
"The video, Agent Weston. As you will remember, we didn't get a trace on that call you received. No, that video was a clear and announced threat on your life. You need to stay in the shadows."
"Sir, look, I've had a lot of experience with Carroll, and unfortunately I think I might actually be his new focus, not the most recent threat. I'm thinking we should-"
He stops reading. "Agent Weston, I respect your experience in the previous investigation and your close relationship with Ryan Hardy. But as much as I'm sure you would love to jump into Agent Hardy's shoes, and perhaps onto the fast track to your own true crime novel-" he looks up pointedly at me, but I cut him off.
"You think I'm lying to get a book deal?" I can't believe him.
"I think that when there's a case of this importance, and immense media attention, that things can often be, unconsciously, misconstrued. Especially for those who are on their way up the career ladder."
I shake my head, stunned. "Except that in the conversation he actually said-"
"The conversation that, as you'll recall, no one else actually heard, and could probably be taken many different ways. Perhaps you simply misunderstood."
"Misunderstood?! You seriously think-?"
"Agent Weston," his voice is quiet but firm, and I instantly shut up. "Until you can come to me with concrete evidence that Carroll is focusing on you in any way other than as a threat-" he pauses, and looks at me but all I can do is sigh and shake my head, "then this conversation is over."
XXXXX
I fly out of the police station, stunned and fuming, and it takes nearly thirty minutes before I feel my muscles begin to relax and my jaw unclench. I can't believe things have taken such a turn, and that Perry could be so blindly wrong about me. I wish Ryan was here, so we could laugh at how ridiculously off track he is, and I try and think what he would do if it had happened to him. Whatever he wanted, I think with a grin and imagine him blatantly disregarding Perry's orders, or maybe just telling him where to stick it.
Finally, I suck up my pride, realizing I'm not Ryan Hardy and decide to return to join the research team. The street lamps are just coming on and a stiff breeze has picked up, and I'm drawn by the bright, cheery warmth of a coffee shop on my way back to the station. On a whim, I walk in, almost convincing myself it's because I need to wake up; not because I don't want to face Perry right away.
There's a long line in the crowded Starbucks when I dazedly walk in. I take my place behind a large man in a tattered tweed coat and try and let my mind calm down, but I'm so antsy I can't keep still. After glancing at the line, which still hasn't moved, I pull out my phone and start researching the quote from Carroll's video. It isn't easy though, mostly because I can't really remember it and frustrated, I click off my phone.
The man in front of me finally makes it up to front of the line, when his cell promptly rings and he answers it. He goes on to have a loud, increasingly personal conversation with what I can only hope is his wife while trying to order a ridiculously complicated whipped coffee. Jittering my foot in irritation, I gaze out the windows and drift off again.
"Wake to sanity in strait-waistcoats," I remember a few minutes later and murmur to myself. I hear a giggle in front of me and I'm surprised by a cute brunette with a large name tag reading 'my name is Denise: ask me how I can help,' smiling back at me. The man in the tweed coat has finally moved, and I was so spaced out I hadn't noticed the line moving forward.
Apologizing, I order my coffee. She smiles a lot during my order, tossing her long curly hair back and laughing, and I spend a solid ten minutes flirting with her at the pick-up counter. We chat aimlessly for a few minutes, and I finally feel myself relaxing, when her attention is caught by something behind me. I turn, half curious.
On the TV is the same petite blond woman I saw in the hallway of the precinct earlier. Kate Sheppard! I pride myself for remembering, but as I watch, I notice something is eerily wrong with her. The blazer she had on is missing, she is instead wearing some sort of frilly looking white shirt and while her hair is still pinned up in a tight bun, parts of it have been pulled out as if she has been struggling. I can see odd tear stains on her face, and from what I can see from behind dark sunglasses her make-up seems smudged. A press conference with sunglasses on? At night? I think as I watch her talk, or try to. She nervously moves her head around while she speaks, but I can't hear anything she is saying. I bark for someone to turn on the sound.
"- terrible struggle that I have had against sleep," She chokes out, saying every word without emphasis, awkwardly and obviously trying to fight down hysterics before continuing, "the pain of the sleeplessness, or the pain of fear of sleep, and with such unknown horror as it has for me." She glances to the right as if straining to listen to someone, and as she turns I see with a jolt that her ears have been sewn shut. I blink my eyes, unsure of what I'm seeing, and I feel my nerves tense.
"How blessed are some people, whose lives have no fears, no dreads," she stammers, hiccuping. She's crying as she speaks, and a weird mixture of blood and tears are flowing down her face. My stomach tightens as I watch her, and in the panic stricken cafe I can barely understand the last few words, "to whom sleep... is a blessing that comes nightly, and brings n-nothing b-but... sweet dreams." She finally breaks down sobbing, her sunglasses flying off.
My breath catches and I'm horrified to see her eyes have also been clumsily sewn shut, the lids bulging and bruised while blood clots at the edges. My mind goes blank and I hear people start to cry out as blood and tears mix and run down her face. A hand grasps her shoulder and she cries out, screaming and frantically shaking her head. Her voodoo-like eyes burn into my mind and seem to remain even as the video ends and a stunned newscaster again takes up the screen. The coffee shop explodes into nervous yelling and people start fighting each other out the door.
"Oh my god," the barista chokes out beside me, horrified. I've completely forgotten she's there. "What a freaky coincidence."
I'm looking for a lid and thinking I should just toss the damn coffee, when I'm stopped by her comment, my heart skipping a beat.
"What coincidence?" I ask slowly.
"The quotes," she answers simply, still glued to the TV. My chest tightens, and I fight the urge to shake her.
"What-," I say as calmly as I can, "what quotes?"
"When you first stepped up you were quoting from Dracula. So was she." She finally turns her face from the news and I must be looking at her like a lunatic because she stammers out: "I-I'm a classic literature major at Towson. We've been studying Stoker."
I literally bolt from the coffee shop, running down at least three people.
I return, breathless, to a police station in chaos.
Perry has taken over the entire first floor squad room, which is a mob of screaming, frantic police and FBI agents. Papers are strewn everywhere, and I can barely hear myself think over the din the phones are making, ringing non-stop from every desk. People are running back and forth, anxiously passing each other reports on twisted pieces of paper, like some kind of fucked up relay race. Perry is standing straight and solid as ever in the middle of the madness; a rock of calm in a stormy sea of hysteria. His coat is tossed on a chair and his shirt sleeves rolled up, exposing massive arms, while he gazes at a large monitor. He reviews the tape from the news stoically, all the while issuing quiet orders and intently listening to updates. I fight my way across to him.
He towers over me, remote held tightly in his hand while he considers the newly restarting video.
"It's Dracula," I say, without explanation or introduction.
"We know," he responds, without even glancing away.
I open my mouth to correct him, when another agent nearly runs me down.
"Sir, we've confirmed the site. It's the Poe memorial in the background." I hear him say in a low voice, and with a sinking feeling I know that no matter how fast we drive, no matter how ironically close the station is to the scene, we'll be too late.
In the flashing lights an hour later, I stomp my feet to keep out the chill and sip on yet another foul, cold cup of coffee. I stare down at it, peering into the Styrofoam, and intensely wish it was something a bit stronger. Narrowing my eyes, I try to keep my focus on it, or the ivy on the wall, or the crumbling gate of Westminster Church, or the bricks beneath my feet. But my gaze unconsciously slips back to the scene in front of me.
Firemen have erected a tall ladder in front of the tiny block of marble that commemorates Poe's work and are nearly finished carefully cutting down the limp body hanging by its wrists from the church roof. I watch, detached, as they lower it to the plastic body bag laid out below, the white nightgown swaying in the breeze and revealing pale, thin legs. With a jolt I remember how smooth they were, how I had rested my hand absently on her thigh just this past summer. She had worn short summer dress and we had gone to a bar to watch a band. Her hair had been shorter then. I remember the bored look she had as we painfully tried to keep the conversation up, but how her eyes had lit up while the music played.
Her head is the last thing to settle, and those now sewn, bloody eyes seem to stare at me from across the yard. Her head rolls and her hair loosens from its bun and I still see her mouth, grinning sickly and sewn into a permanent smile, before they zip the bag shut.
I gulp down the rest of my coffee when a few minutes later I see the crime scene coroner stand up from beside her and stretch his limbs. I walk towards him as he snaps off his gloves and sighs, turning towards an increasingly haggard looking group of agents.
"Cause of death?" Perry asks
"Too soon to tell without a full autopsy. Off the record though? I have no idea. Its just like the others." he says, and Perry nods.
"Others?" I ask, trying to look like I have all the right to ask the question. Perry responds to me without even looking.
"Two other women, Taylor and Roberts. Both found in white nightgowns, hung by their wrists. Sheppard was investigating their deaths, but we haven't been able to definitively determine cause of death." he shakes his head.
"There's more," the coroner says cautiously, but Perry merely gazes at him expectantly. "She's got two huge puncture wounds in her neck. Just like the other two."
"Dracula." I say, almost to myself. Perry nods.
"The quote, I know." he says, distracted by the crime scene technicians carting the dark body bag away. I try not to think about how many agents I've seen zipped up and carted away since this whole mess began, instead turning to face Perry directly.
"Actually, I was trying to tell you before. The quote from the Carroll video: it's also from Dracula." He rips his eyes away from the scene and glares down at me.
"You're sure?" he growls at me, and I nod, holding up my phone which I've used to do a little research while we were waiting. He shakes his head, and hands it back to me. "Well then, not only does Baltimore have a serial killer on the loose, but this ties them to Carroll." he sighs, looking at me before nodding to himself.
"Congratulations Weston," he says, without any zeal, and his face looks like he's bitten into a lemon, "you officially have a case."
I hope you enjoyed- updates soon! Feel the anticipation yet? (If not, then just don't tell me, alright?)