COVENANT
by
E. J. Deen
Trade Paperback ISBN:1-931062-14-5
(Gemstar Ebook ISBN: 1-931062-06-4)
Excerpt:
Rosa put her Diet Coke down on the coffee table and reached for the remote as she plopped down onto the couch, flicking the television on to her favorite morning talk show. She was just about to reach for the portfolio she'd flung on the couch earlier, ready to review the latest prints from her last shoot, when something in the room caught her eye. She knew she was still groggy from a late night at a local Miami hot spot, not all that alert, but she could have sworn she'd seen something move between her and the television screen, just a bare displacement of space, nothing more. Something...invisible, yet somehow not invisible.
As she peered at the vacant spot before her, she felt a surge of intense fear shimmy over her entire body as her eyes picked up the scant movement again. It was like looking at wind, something not quite tangible but definitely there. She knew something was there, she could feel it all around her now, that and the sick dread that had settled in her gut.
In the next second, she detected the movement again. She felt rather than saw the hand that suddenly clamped around her throat, dragging her up off the couch until her feet were dangling in midair. Her voice was cut off by the stranglehold, preventing her scream for help. She couldn't even utter a whimper of protest. Before she could even begin to fight off the attack, her abdomen was abruptly torn apart, her rib cage opening up like freshly plowed tree roots, leaving her organs and intestines to spill out. She felt an odd burning sensation in her torso, as though her entire body was engulfed in flames, then she was dropped onto the carpet, where she lay sprawled, her neck flopped over at a ridiculous angle. The same hand that had lifted her off the couch reached into her chest cavity and ripped her heart from her body just as it was pumping its last. She felt nothing then. Not even her own blood as it trickled from her mutilated corpse. She was quite dead.
"Where the hell is Sotherland?" Manning downright growled the question, his face screwed into a scowl of displeasure.
"Right here, Cap." Jack Sotherland had just arrived on the crime scene and sauntered over to stand behind the man who ran the Homicide Unit of the Miami Police Department. It seemed like half the department was gathered in the small parking lot of the two-story apartment complex. It must have been some case to draw such a crowd.
"What took you so long?" Captain Manning barked at him. "Have you seen that mess in there?"
Jack shrugged. "Not yet. But it must be pretty unusual to get you out of the station."
"Is that supposed to be some kind of wise-ass remark, Sotherland?" Manning demanded, looking like he'd like to rip Jack's head off.
Jack only grinned back at him with his usual devil-may-care attitude. "Not at all, Captain. Just an observation. By the way, are you coming to my birthday party?"
"What the hell makes you think you're gonna have a party? Dammit, Jack, don't pull this cavalier bullshit with me. I don't need it right now. What I need is a serious detective. There's a dead girl in there, and I expect you to find the man who killed her. Is that clear?"
Jack frowned, still stuck on the notion of not having a party this year. It was a disappointing thought. Those parties were sometimes the only reminder that he even had any friends among his peers. "Homicide gives me a party every year on my birthday. Why should today be any different?"
"Get in there and do your damn job," Manning ordered. "Wise ass! Just because the women think you're a pretty boy doesn't mean you're a good detective."
"But I am a good detective. I'm the best in the department. That's why you called me out here, isn't it?"
"A good detective wouldn't be standing around with his thumb up his ass," Manning quipped. "There's a mangled body in that apartment. Go solve the case."
As much as Manning liked to bust Jack's balls, the idiot was right about one thing. He was the best damn detective on the Homicide team. And even though he was acting as if today was just another walk on the beach, Manning knew he would get serious when he saw the corpse inside. Manning trusted him, although he would never admit that to anyone else, especially not Sotherland.
Jack glanced up at the apartment in question just as a perky, dark-haired policewoman appeared from within. She caught site of him below and gave him a big smile. "Hey, Sotherland. Happy birthday. Are you coming to your party tonight?"
He smiled, allowing her the full benefit of his charm as he watched her walk down the stairs toward them. "Of course I'm coming. I haven't missed one yet, have I?"
Manning growled something unintelligible, then asked, "What have you got there, Gladys?"
"Fingerprints. Lots of fingerprints. And they're all hers." Gladys handed the captain her clipboard.
"Damn. This guy's good," Manning mumbled to himself.
Jack looked from one to the other. "What's the story here anyway?" He wanted a briefing before entering the crime scene.
It was Gladys who answered. "Twenty-one year old female victim. No murder weapons. No prints. It's the strangest thing I've ever seen. She's laying in there in pieces."
"Pete's inside," Manning told him. "He can bring you up to date."
"There's not much to tell," Gladys commented. "It's going to be a tough case."
"Not with the pro here." Jack grinned.
"Get the fuck out of here, Jack," Manning said. "Sometimes I find it hard to believe you're thirty-five already. You act like a jerk-off half the time."
"Thirty-six," Gladys corrected. "It's his birthday today, remember?"
"Christ, I'm surrounded by smart-asses!" Manning scowled at both of them and fished around in his pocket for a cigarette. "Maybe you should dust for prints again, Gladys. Give yourself something to do besides moon over him." He jerked a thumb in Jack's direction.
She shook her head and tried to act as though his last comment hadn't embarrassed her. "No way. I got everything I could."
"Shit," Manning swore. He put the cigarette in his mouth and lit it with jerky movements.
Jack stared at him in surprise. Manning had always been a hard-ass, but it was rare that he ever displayed such obvious anxiety over a case. "Why is everyone so uptight? It's just a simple murder case, right?"
"I wish it was," Manning answered. "Wait until you see it."
"It'll make your hair stand on end," Gladys said.
"Jack," a voice called from above them. "Where the hell have you been? Get your ass in here. You've got to see this to believe it."
Jack glanced up and saw Pete standing at the railing above them.
"I'll be right there, Pete," he called, then turned back to the dark-haired girl beside him. "Hey, Gladys. Will there be a stripper at the party this year again?"
"Get out of here before I fire you," Manning yelled, sending Jack scurrying away, his arms thrown up in mock-defense, a boyish grin on his face. "What do you see in that guy?" Manning asked the little woman standing next to him, his brows drawn together in a scowl of contempt.
"Go easy on him, Captain. You know how Jack is when he starts a new case. It's just his way of easing the tension. He'll pick up the pace."
She watched Jack Sotherland wade through the police tape surrounding the apartment. Jack was every woman's dream and every woman's nightmare. He was tall, with a lean, muscular frame, sandy blond hair, big, gorgeous blue eyes, and a charm that was all his own. He had an infectious grin and an unwavering sense of humor. She personally thought he was the sexiest, most desirable man on the planet. She'd been trying to get his attention for months now, unfortunately without much success.
"Everybody loves Jack," she commented to no one in particular, releasing a small wistful sigh.
"Bullshit," Manning barked with such vehemence that he nearly spit the cigarette out of his mouth.
Upstairs, Jack pushed past the police photographer and made his way through the apartment. The moment he entered the place he felt the hair at the back of his neck stand on end. There was a decided air about it, like nothing he'd ever felt before. He'd seen plenty of gruesome murder victims during his career as a detective, but he had never before felt such an intense feeling as this one. Not that he could actually put a finger on the feeling itself. It felt like an expectant sort of fear. Fear of what, though? He hadn't even seen the victim yet, and he wasn't even anywhere near the killer. So, why did he feel the need to be afraid?
His boyish grin died when he stepped into the living room where the alleged murder had taken place. The apartment was completely clean except for this particular room, and what he saw there was appalling. The television set, which sat in one corner of the room, was still on, intimating that the victim had been watching it just before she'd been murdered. There was no sign of a struggle. Apparently, the victim hadn't even seen her attacker coming. She lay in a limp heap just in front of the sofa, her blood everywhere, drying on the carpet, the sofa, her. So strange. He'd never seen anything like it.
"Hey, Jack."
He'd been standing just inside the archway that led into the living room, just staring, but he looked up when he heard his friend call out to him.
Pete motioned him toward the victim. "Come over here and get a closer look."
Jack reluctantly obliged, almost dreading getting anywhere near the dead girl. The closer he got, the worse that feeling got, that strange prickling sensation at the base of his skull, the one he didn't particularly care for. He had to force himself to look at her. When the hell had he become such a wimp?
"What have you got?" he asked as he tried to override the sick sensation in his gut, along with the disturbing feeling that he was losing his edge.
"It looks like she was sitting on the sofa watching television when she was attacked from out of nowhere. It's obvious that she wasn't even aware that anyone was in the room with her," Pete explained.
"What about the door?" Jack wanted to know.
"No sign of breaking and entering. The door hasn't been pried or broken. I'm convinced that the lock wasn't even picked. As a matter of fact, the door was still locked when we arrived, the deadbolt, too. Even all the windows in the apartment were closed and locked. None of them show signs of any type of entry, including, and especially, forced entry," Pete told him, a look of puzzlement on his face.
Jack glanced around the living room. A half empty can of diet soda sat on the coffee table. Everything seemed so peaceful. The only sign of violence was the body on the floor. "Who reported the murder?"
"A Mrs. Garcia. She's the landlady. You'll have to hear her story for yourself."
"Did she let you in the apartment?"
Pete nodded. "She hasn't seen the victim yet. She's afraid to come inside."
"We'll need a positive identification of the victim," Jack noted. "You're sure there was no sign of a break-in?" He glanced at Pete long enough to see him shake his head in a negative response.
"Doesn't mean anything. The suspect could've had a key," he mused. "Judging by the type of lock, there's no way the door could have been locked from the inside and then shut behind the intruder. Which indicates to me that whoever was in this apartment definitely had a key. And that narrows the field considerably."
"I don't think so. For chrissake, look at the body, Jack."
Jack looked down at the twisted dead girl at his feet. It was positively gruesome. Her head was nearly twisted off, and her intestines were half hanging out of her bloody, mangled corpse. It looked like a giant hand had reached into her abdomen and torn her in pieces. The only thing left intact was her face. Even her legs and arms had been broken. It was a shame. She'd been a beautiful girl, and young. So young.
"It looks like something picked her up and tore her apart, like a dog shaking a rag doll. I've never seen anything like it before," Pete mumbled. "It's eerie. Nothing human could have done this."
"Don't bet on it," Jack muttered. "There are plenty of fruitcakes in this world who are sick enough to do something like this. That's why we have jobs."
"Come on, Jack. There's no murder weapon. What could have done this? What has that kind of strength?"
"We'll just have to wait and see what Forensics has to say about it. Until then, let's see what else we can dig up. Where is Mrs. Garcia?"
"She's outside," Pete answered, looking positively disappointed in his co-worker.
Jack stared back at his friend. Jesus, what was the matter with these people today? They all seemed so intent on having a case of the willies, himself included. He had to fight the feeling of malevolence that hung in the room. It seemed to want to sap his brain of all reason, but before he buckled under the bad-Halloween-tale vibe the scene was giving him, he wanted to counter it with some data.
"I'll go talk to her," Jack said.
"Criminy, what a scene," a voice suddenly exclaimed.
Jack turned to find the men from the medical examiner's office standing over the body. "Rather gruesome isn't it, boys?"
"Gruesome doesn't begin to describe it," one of them answered. "I've never seen anything like this. What the hell did it?"
"We were gonna ask you the same," Pete commented.
"Did you find a murder weapon?" the other man wanted to know.
"None," Jack replied, shaking his head.
"Judging by the looks of it," the other man piped in, "I would say that a large animal did it. Maybe a bear. But the tears along the abdomen don't really display the claw marks of a bear. They look even bigger than those any bear could make."
"Get real," Jack scoffed. "How could a bear get into this apartment? Not to mention the fact that Miami isn't exactly bear country, it's upstairs. Do bears use ladders?"
"I didn't say it was a bear. I said the way the body is mangled it looks similar to a bear mauling, without the teeth and claw marks," the man reiterated. "But whatever did this was definitely not human."
"What are you suggesting?" Jack really was curious now. After all, it was a strange thing for the man to say.
"I'm not suggesting anything really. I'm just telling you what it looks like," he explained.
"Well, we'll wait for the report," Jack said.
"You're the boss, Detective."
Jack glanced at his friend. Pete was watching the men bag the body, a pained expression on his angular face.
"You've got a strange look on your face, Pete. I wouldn't put too much store in what those boys said. It's probably easily explained. You'll see. We'll get the report back, and it will be some ridiculous homemade murder weapon that some psycho maniac built in his garage."
"Yeah, Jack. Whatever you say." Pete didn't seem convinced.
Jack gave his friend a reassuring clap on the shoulder and turned to leave the apartment.