Twice Cursed Read online

  Twice Cursed

  Marianne Morea

  Coventry Press Ltd.

  Coventry Press Ltd.

  Somers, New York

  htp://www.coventrypressltd.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used factiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 Marianne Morea

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions of thereof in any form whatsoever without written permission.

  ISBN-10: 0988439603

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9884396-0-3

  First Edition: Coventry Press Ltd. 2012

  Cover Artist: Fantasy Frog Designs with Marianne Morea

  Editor: Melanie Nowak, WoodWitchDame Publications

  For Bill,

  The Love of My Life…

  Chapter One

  ***

  NEW YORK CITY

  February 9th, Four a.m.

  “Fuck! It’s cold,” Detective Ryan Martinez muttered, blowing on his hands. He stepped lightly, picking his way through the shattered glass and wood covering the street. Even to an untrained eye, it looked as if the bar had exploded from the inside out.

  He shook his head, his lips pressed together in a grim line, watching as CSI began their initial investigation inside what was left of the bar. Most of the victims had their throats ripped open, and there was so much blood and debris, it looked like a gangland war zone.

  Outside, three victims lay prone on the sidewalk, their bodies bent and unnatural in the dirty snow. The red glare of flashing patrol lights gave the grisly scene a surreal appearance. Nobody in their right mind wanted to be out tonight, least of all for a mess like this.

  Patrol had already cordoned off the area, but the ghastly scene attracted rubberneckers even at this ungodly hour. God bless the city that never sleeps, he thought grimly, while uniformed personnel busied themselves with crowd control.

  Martinez caught sight of his dour faced superior. Detective Sergeant Michael Shaw flashed his badge and crossed the police barrier, nodding to the uniformed officers operating the perimeter. He crouched under the yellow police tape, stepping carefully to avoid the frozen footprints dotting the sidewalks like potholes. With a grunt, he stood up, straightening his coat. “Whadda we got, Martinez?”

  The young detective flipped his notebook open, his breath puffing out in clouds of wet smoke. “Multiple homicide, Sergeant. Nine bodies, six inside the club and three out on the sidewalk. Injuries appear to be severe with possible D.O.A.s. The triage paramedics are still calling it.”

  Wind gusts cut down the street like a razor, slicing into the back of his neck and setting his teeth to chatter. He turned his collar up and brushed the snow from his hair and shoulders, leaving his shearling suede coat dotted with damp splotches. Melting snow had mixed with freezing rain, turning most of the East Village into a gray, slushy puddle. Plummeting overnight temperatures had left the normally vibrant streets coated in black ice. If the cops weren’t careful, some of their own would head to the hospital along with the victims from this latest bloodbath.

  Inside what was left of the bar, the CSI unit sifted through the rubble, recording evidence, and a thick tension pressed down on everyone while they waited for additional ambulances to arrive. It was a sure bet, a call was put out to more than one EMS Corps based on the look of things.

  “Any witnesses or statements yet?” Shaw asked, stepping over broken glass and bodies, careful not to step in any of the blood. Dark smudges were evident under the Sergeant’s eyes, despite wind-reddened cheeks and at least a day’s worth of stubble. His mud brown hair looked as if frustrated fingers had raked through it a hundred times.

  “No, not one, and the bartender’s dead too. No security camera either. It’s as if someone came in and went postal on the whole damn place, then disappeared without a trace. Inside, it’s tore up pretty bad as well, blood everywhere except in each vic…” Martinez stopped short.

  At Shaw’s raised eyebrow, Martinez cleared his throat. He wasn’t being a wiseass, nor was it mere speculation. He knew the victims had been drained dry. The young detective frowned, wincing a bit at what Shaw would think after the medical examiner’s final report confirmed what he let slip. How would he explain himself? A good guess? He didn’t think so.

  Martinez’s hand went to his mouth, and he gagged slightly. Christ! What the hell was that stench? He knew it was more than just the blood and gore. It was happening again. There was something underlying all this, something beneath the obvious that didn’t seem to register with anyone else.

  Hunches were nothing new in police work. Most detectives had a blue sense, a gut feeling when it came to solving difficult crimes, but Martinez’s uncanny abilities went way beyond hunch. Things had been curious on and off for the last six months, ever since Martinez made detective. He had been one of the youngest officers promoted to the squad in quite some time, and from that point, his sixth sense, or whatever it was, had shifted into overdrive. Sometimes it was a blessing, like when his squad located that missing six-year-old last month. Other times, not as much.

  Either way his extrasensory revelations made certain members of his squad a bit nervous. They already thought of him as half a freak, referring to him as the dog behind his back because of the things he could sense. However, unlike bounty-hunter and reality TV star, Duane ‘Dog’ Chapman, it wasn’t out of respect for his skills.

  The hair on Martinez’s neck and arms stood on end, but there was no way he was saying anything else to Shaw about what he sensed. He’d heard it all before. “Hey, Martinez, maybe you should put in for the canine unit… we heard they add a lifetime supply of dog chow to your bennies when you retire!” Ha. Ha. Ha. No, thank you.

  Remarks like those taught Martinez to keep his cards close. Tall and handsome, with piercing green eyes and dark wavy hair, he carried himself as if he could own the world if he wanted, but the truth was, he was a loner, and preferred it that way.

  The shrill sound of sirens shook him out of his passing reverie. The ambulances had arrived along with the Medical Examiner. As the man stepped out of the car, Martinez’s eyebrows shot up. Their Duty Captain had clearly called in the big guns. He watched as the man greeted the chief M.E., calling Shaw over to give the brass a run through of what they had found so far. The M.E. nodded, before heading inside with his team. As per protocol, the injured were assessed and then transported to the nearest hospital, with D.O.A.s going directly to the main morgue at Bellevue. Of course, Martinez already knew there were all dead.

  A uniformed officer pushed past the others and walked toward him, urgency written all over his face. “Detective, you’d better come with me. CSI found another victim. He’s still alive, if just barely,” he said, pulling Martinez’s attention back to the scene.

  “Where?” he shot back, shoving his notebook into his breast pocket.

  “Behind the bar,” he answered.

  The man led the way through the blown out door, his face pale against his blue uniform. His underlying green pallor made his rookie status patent, and the poor cop kept wiping his nose and mouth with the back of his hand.

  The two moved past CSI photographers, to stand just behind the crisis unit, as the medical team prepped the victim for transport.

  “Can he talk? I need a word with him before you take him,” Martinez asked, leaning over the EMT lieutenant as he worked.

  The lead EMT shook his head. “I doubt it. His throat’s pretty torn up, and he’s lost a lot of blood. If there’s any chance at saving him, we’ve got to move
now. Either talk as we walk, or ride with us to the hospital. Your call, Detective.”

  The victim’s hand shot out grabbing Martinez’s arm. His eyes were wild, and he clawed at the oxygen mask over his nose and mouth.

  “Take that thing off his face!” Martinez yelled, but no one moved to take the mask away.

  The man’s fingers clutched at the Detective’s coat, his mouth working beneath the clear plastic trying to form words.

  “It’s going to be all right, sir. We’re taking you to the hospital,” the EMT said, shooting Martinez a dirty look. “We’ve got to go, NOW!”

  The injured man wouldn’t let go of Martinez’s coat. He opened his mouth again, his eyes pleading, but a series of gurgled rasps were the only sound that escaped.

  EMTs pried the man’s hand from Martinez’s coat, and then moved like triage lightning out the door, loading him into the waiting ambulance.

  Shaw walked back. “Did he make a statement?”

  Martinez’s gaze followed the ambulance’s flashing lights as it turned the corner, the telltale whoop-whoop of its siren echoing in the air. “Yeah. It was garbled, but I managed to make out what he said.”

  “Well?”

  The detective took a deep breath and turned to face his superior. “He said it was the devil,” Martinez answered, his eyes trained on the sergeant.

  The corners of Shaw’s mouth pulled down, and a disgusted sound escaped his lips. “Great. Just what we need, another crazy complete with hallucinations,” he said, stamping his feet for warmth. He shoved his hands into his pockets again. “It’s gotta be drug related, either that or he’s psychotic. Lowlife mutt probably knows he’s gonna die and is panicking about paying the devil his due.”

  Martinez frowned. “Maybe. Except it didn’t look like drugs or psychosis to me. The guy was terrified. Whoever or whatever did this scared the crap out of him.”

  “Look, I’m sorry for the guy, but it doesn’t really matter. Unless he spouts something that will actually help, I’m not wasting man-hours collecting gibberish. You know how I feel about that kind of supernatural claptrap.”

  Martinez nodded, but kept his mouth closed.

  Sticking a piece of gum in his mouth, Shaw shook his head at the bloody mess mixed with the dirty snow around their feet. “Heard from dispatch on the QT that this case follows the same profile as two others this month. Been talking to the other squad leaders, and there’s a pattern to these homicides, Martinez, at least that’s what headquarters is thinking. In my eyes, the fact that O.C.M.E. brass is here tonight confirms it. I don’t see how they’re going keep the lid on this much longer, and the Captain’s already breathing down everyone’s neck about not having any leads. Don’t know exactly how we’re going to handle this.”

  Martinez wrinkled his nose and coughed. He had no idea either.

  ***

  “What Do You Mean You Have No Leads?” Police Commissioner, Stan O’Neill, yelled as he paced back and forth behind his desk, his normally ruddy complexion getting redder by the minute. Sweat glistened beneath his receding hairline, and his usually impeccable appearance was unkempt, his suit as rumpled as his demeanor. “I thought we found a survivor. Is he able to talk? Why hasn’t his statement been taken?”

  “He didn’t make it, sir. He died while in route to the hospital,” Shaw said, drawing his meaty hand across his forehead.

  “This is a nightmare, a fucking nightmare. I didn’t spend thirty years of my life being all about the job, to have this sort of thing happen on my watch.” Rubbing his temples, O’Neill exhaled.

  With his back to his deputies, he faced the windows, his hands folded across his chest. One Police Plaza and the grounds of Park Row had always been a symbol of the interconnectedness of the NYPD and New York’s five boroughs. But even the river, steel gray and foreboding in the distance, seemed to mock that premise this morning, instead mirroring the anxious faces of the men sitting around the office.

  Shifting nervously in their seats, no one spoke. They had all been summoned, pulled from every source O’Neill could think of to get a handle on what was happening in the city, His City. The best of New York’s Finest—Intelligence, Strategic Initiatives, Operations, and the office of Legal Matters—all were staggered by the situation.

  “Please, sir, if I can…” Bureau Chief, Mark Phillips, began, only to be cut off in midsentence. He was the Commanding Officer of Detectives, so technically, it was his ass in the hot seat, but the situation did not bode well for any of them.

  “I don’t want to hear any excuses! Do you have any idea who I have screaming at me about this? Threatening me with things, you don’t want to know. Senator Ned Kelly. That’s right. Senator, ‘I own everything in this country’ Ned Kelly. His cousin’s kid just happened to be one of the victims at this latest bloodbath down in the 9th precinct.”

  “A Kelly, huh? What the hell was he doing at a dive bar off Avenue B? If he’s anything like the rest of them, five will get you ten it was off the charts kinky,” Deputy Tom Fay snorted.

  Phillips’ head jerked left. Everyone knew Fay was a first class putz, but now wasn’t the time to be missing a filter. Still snickering, the dumbass didn’t even pretend to look embarrassed. Deputies were historically political appointees, but since becoming Commissioner, O’Neill had been hardcore when it came to the men and women he surrounded himself with, demanding they all spent time on the job. Fay’s wiseass remark made it clear he was no more than a political favor.

  O’Neill stopped pacing and slammed his hands on his desk. Glaring, he eyeballed everyone in the room. “Who the hell cares why? Perhaps he was a fan of slumming it. The only thing that matters now is that we don’t look like a bunch of incompetent idiots. This stops now. We need handle on this and quickly. So gentlemen, not to put too fine a point on the matter, we need to solve this pronto! Any suggestions?”

  The silence in the room was deafening, and even Fay kept his trap shut for once. Phillips looked around. Most of the men present had held shields for many years, but it seemed clear that years of being suits’ had dulled their instincts, either that, or they didn’t want to risk their cushy jobs to O’Neill’s wrath. Well, screw that.

  Phillips was still close enough to the job to want to get his hands dirty, and this shit stunk to high heaven. “I have an idea, sir, but it’s a little unorthodox,” he offered, mentally steeling himself for what he knew could end up being tantamount to career suicide.

  O’Neill slumped down into his chair and loosened his tie. “At this point, I’d be willing to listen to just about anything. We’ve had three major incidents in the last month leaving seventeen people dead, one the relative of a political powerhouse. The press is on the verge of a feeding frenzy, and we have absolutely no leads. It’s a miracle we’ve been able to keep a lid on this thus far—however, I have no other fingers left to plug up the leaks, so for God sake spit it out Phillips. I’m all ears.”

  “We could bring in a psychic.”

  As expected, the reaction from his colleagues was less than enthusiastic, but Phillips ignored their sarcasm, keeping his eyes trained on the Commissioner’s silent expression.

  “Come on, Phillips, you can’t be serious? This is enough of a freak show without us intentionally adding to it,” Fay interjected.

  The Commissioner’s face was a mask. He said nothing, yet his eyes narrowed. With his forearms on his desk, he drummed his fingers as if weighing the options. Leaning forward, he pointed one of them at Phillips, fixing him with an ice-cold stare. “Do you have someone specific in mind, Mark? This better not be some hokey, spoon bender that comes complete with a lunatic fringe entourage.”

  The two men eyed each other in utter gravity, as everyone else in the room slowly came to the realization this was no joke.

  Phillips nodded. “I know someone, sir, we’ve worked with her before, and she’s the best. Very credible and extremely discreet. Her name is Lily Saburi. I’ll have my office give her a call immediately.”


  Chapter Two

  ***

  “Sit down, Lily! Your pacing is making me as nervous as a cat.”

  “I can’t,” she sighed, shoving her hands into her pockets. “They’ve been at it for days now, Rissa. Aren’t you even the slightest bit concerned about what’s going on behind those carved doors across the lawn?” Lily exhaled sharply, itching for a cigarette.

  The fire crackled alongside the soft swishing of Lily’s leathers as she walked back and forth. She was dressed in her armor of choice, black leather jeans and a matching, formfitting jacket, zipped to just above her cleavage. With the political climate facing the Compound of Weres these days, she was leaving nothing to chance. She may have looked like a porcelain doll dressed in biker gear, but God help anyone who assumed she was easily broken, or worse, easily manipulated. With her vigilante past, the description didn’t fit the bill. If pushed, she would fight.

  Rissa put down her knitting, the half-done blanket and skein of baby blue yarn covering her burgeoning belly. “Of course I am.” She winced, adjusting herself on the moss green couch, wedging a matching chintz pillow behind her back for support. “What happens behind those doors affects me just as much as it affects you. I have much more to worry about than just my own health, but what I don’t see is why you’re so agitated. Sean can hold his own, regardless of what Edward Parr throws at him. Besides, Mitch is with him.”

  Lily’s eyes softened. She wasn’t the only one whose life had turned upside-down. Rissa’s husband had died horribly, as a result of the mutant virus at the heart of the proceedings currently in debate at the Compound’s Great Hall. The same virus threatening their entire existence At least that’s what the council wanted everyone to think. However, Lily knew there was more to it than that. Edward Parr had his own agenda, and both Sean and Mitch knew it too. Parr was dangerous.