Leech (pt 1)

Prologue

The late afternoon sun streamed in through the window throwing a hazy golden warmth over the bed. The woman sighed contentedly, rolling over lazily to look at the man lying naked beside her on the rumpled sheets. He was tall, and strong, lightly tanned with a sprinkle of black chest hair following a neat line to a matching dark patch at his groin. He was lying on his back, hands behind his head, gazing at the ceiling. She was a little surprised, he seemed tense despite the relaxed pose, she'd have thought the abandoned intensity of their love-making would be enough to relax anyone. She propped her head up on her hand, using her free hand to stroke small, soothing circles over his toned stomach.
       "That was fabulous," she said with a soft smile.
      He made a non-committal sound, not looking at her.
       "Oh, come on," she giggled, "wasn't that the best? Aren't I - " her hand moved down from his stomach towards his genitals, " - the best you've ever had?"
      He looked at her then, blue eyes serious in his tanned face.
       "Oh yes," he confirmed, "you've kept me amused for weeks." She smiled broadly and began to stroke his softened penis."That's why I haven't killed you yet."
      She stopped, shocked.
      "What?!" she said with a small, disbelieving laugh. He rolled over onto his side, mimicking her posture, and reached out a finger to trace her lips.
      "But I don't get the same kick from sex with you anymore. I need that little bit extra to satisfy me."
      She stared at him, not wanting to believe what she thought he was saying. "What?" she asked again in an unsteady voice.
       "When the sex doesn't do it for me anymore, I kill my partner. It's perfect."
       He spoke in a perfectly reasonable tone of voice and it took a couple of seconds for what he said to penetrate. Then she was moving, pushing away from him and shaking her head.
      "This isn't funny."
       "Can you see me laughing?" he asked matter-of-factly, "I'm going to kill you, I'm going to get the last, ultimate ride out of you before you die."
      She managed to get off the bed and started towards the door before he dived after her, tackling her to the floor. Frantic now, horrified to see he was erect again, she bit and kicked and scratched at him as he forced her over onto her back. His hand cracked across her face, stunning her long enough for him to slide astride her hips. He waited until her wits had returned before wrapping large, long-fingered hands around her throat. She clawed at them, tearing her nails off in her desperation. He locked his elbows and squeezed.
      It was an unequal battle and gradually her strength failed. The last sensation she felt before she succumbed to the dark was the warm splash of his ejaculate over her belly...

"For christ's sake! How long is she going to be?"
      "I'm sorry for the delay, sergeant," Lenore spoke irritably to the surly police officer glowering down at her, "but you know full well no one can go onto this crime scene until Agent Cassacio has been through."
      "And in the meantime we just fucking stand here wasting time when we could be in there starting the fucking investigation!"
      Lenore pursed her lips, eyeing the stout man coldly, but said nothing.
      *Their investigations so far haven't yielded any results.* Razor sniped, standing with outward impassiveness beside her partner.
      *Neither have ours, remember.*
      *Why are we still involved with this case?* the 'path's disgust was evident.
      *Because the police can't solve it on their own and they're paying us, the Agency, a hefty fee for our services.*
      Razor was grumbling.
      *Big deal. Four people strangled*
      *Five.* Lenore corrected her. Razor ignored the interruption.
      *after apparently consenting sex and this warrants Agency intervention because...?*
      It was early and Lenore was irritable having been dragged out of her boyfriend's bed - Nate hadn't been impressed either and Lenore had a sinking feeling this was another relationship about to end - she was in no mood to explain to her partner, again, the Agency's 'working towards a better world' ethics.
      *How's Angel?* she asked, pleased to see the question startle the psi, and raise a hint of a blush on her porcelain skin.
      *Fine.* Razor said curtly, then she softened unimaginably - and good grief, was that an embryonic smile? *Fine.*
      *That's good.* Lenore gave no hint she'd noticed any change in her partner.

A ripple stirred through the eight police officers and forensic crew waiting impatiently in the dim, but clean corridor of the apartment complex.
      *Cassacio's here.* Razor redundantly informed her partner as the 'meat-reader' arrived, people instinctively stepping away from the conservatively dressed woman so she travelled within an empty space.
      Lenore greeted the Agent cordially, not surprised when she got nothing in reply but an indifferent gaze from clear hazel eyes: if there was a psi pricklier than Razor it was Maria Cassacio.
      Without a word the psi stepped past the Agents barricading the room, prowling to stand in the centre near the naked, black-faced body of a young woman. Cassacio stood with her eyes closed, concentrating, for several long minutes, her expression fluttering through the emotions she was sensing from the crime scene – disbelief, horror, terror... savage lust...
      Lenore didn't envy the psionics, she never hankered after a talent of her own – except maybe telekinesis when it was just too much effort to get off her arse to go and get something – but Cassacio's talent was particularly unappealing. She was a psychometrist, a rare talent that had the ability to 'read' impressions, emotions from an object or an area. In Cassacio's case, her talent was particularly strong in reading objects, corpses included. As far as was known, according to Agency files, Cassacio was the only psychometrist in Greater Europe with that particular slant. Lenore suppressed a shudder, thinking of some of the homicides the olive-skinned agent had been assigned to.

Cassacio's eyes flickered open and she paused for a couple of seconds before squatting smoothly down beside the body. She pulled a fine, black leather glove off of one hand and gently touched her bared fingertips to the corpse's forehead. She closed her eyes, concentrating again, then sighed.
      "Definitely the same man." Cassacio stroked a few strands of bedraggled blonde hair away from the dead girl's face before tugging the glove back over her hand.
      "You sure about that?" Maher, the police inspector ostensibly in charge of this investigation, grunted at her - his dislike of psis had been previously noted on other 'co-operative' cases.
      "I've been blessed with an eidetic memory," Cassacio said unblinkingly, "if you like, through Agent Anderson, I can show you the last thing the girl saw."

Dear god! - Lenore was staggered but managed not to let it show - Cassacio had a photographic memory? She remembered everything? How the hell did the poor bitch stay sane?

Maher mumbled something about at least not having to redo the photofit 'mug' shot again then started organising his people to do their jobs.
      "Lowhall," he spoke gruffly to a younger, plain clothes detective, "you're liasing with the - Agency staff again."
      Charles Lowhall, expressionless, nodded his close-cropped blonde head curtly then sauntered over to stand in front of the three Agents, his back to his boss.
      "Coffee?" He said cheerfully, if quietly.
      "Oh god, yes please," Lenore grinned at him, "If I don't get some caffeine soon I'm going to implode..."

It wasn’t that the Agency didn't allow non-Agency people into it's main building, it did, they just didn't go beyond a certain point generally, and the visitors were under constant telepathic watch while they were there. Lenore mused to herself that Charles was so laid-back about most things that even if he did know he was being scrutinised from a distance, she doubted he'd really care that much.
      Charles set his half-empty coffee cup down with a happy sigh.
      "I never have any qualms about liasing with the Agency," he said, grey eyes twinkling above a rather endearing lop-sided grin, "you guys have the best coffee."
      Lenore chuckled: the psis remained impassive.
      "There are definite perks for working with this outfit," she smiled, "sure we can't tempt you to apply?"
      Charles grinned; this was an old joke between them, had been since Lenore'd resigned from the Metropolitan Police two years ago.
      "Nah. I like life on the ground," he said to his ex-colleague, "besides, it doesn't hurt for the Agency to have a definite 'friendly' amongst the cops, right?"
      Lenore nodded rueful agreement then got down to business.
      "So, have your lot come up with anything new since the last one?"
      "Not a squeak," he sighed, "you?"
      "Same here."
      "I may have something." Agent Cassacio said quietly. Two pairs of eyes looked at her with intense interest, the third - Razor - was less impressed. "It's easier if I show you. Anderson, if you could…"
      Razor easily picked out the five images from Cassacio's mind and transmitted them to the two flatscans.
      "Something has been bothering me about these images," the psychometrist said, "it wasn't until this last one I realised what it was. Look closely at the first and compare it to the last."
      There was silence around the table while they scrutinised the last things the victims had seen.
      Lenore frowned.
      "What am I looking for?"
      "Holy shit," Charles murmured.
      "You can see it?" Cassacio asked him.
      "I think so." He frowned. "It's the same person, but – it's like a – " he struggled for the words, " – a drawing or painting of them, an early and later version."
      "Jesus," Lenore breathed, "like the artist has had practise." She glanced at Razor. "This is an illusion the guy's projecting? He's a talent?"
      Razor frowned, considering.
      "Looks possible."
      "So the bloody photofit is useless!" Lenore scowled in disgust.
      The glum silence was punctuated by the ringing of Charles' phone. The detective flipped the slim piece of tech open and listened quietly, scribbling a few notes in his everpresent notebook.
      "Right, thanks, Carl." Charles closed the connection then looked up at the three Agents.
      "Found out who the victim is, and got names and addresses of her friends..."

Cassacio wasn't needed for this part of the investigation, so she coolly took her leave of them, wrapped as always in that unwelcoming, unnerving stillness.
      "No offence," Charles murmured after the psychometrist had left the room, "but man, she gives me the creeps."
      "You're not alone," Lenore shook her head wryly. "I made the mistake once of asking her how it felt, having this 'communication' with the dead. She said, quite seriously, she's quite comfortable with the dead, it's the living that makes her nauseous."
      "Charming." Charles shuddered.
      "But not her fault." Lenore shrugged. "It's just the way she's made."

Maher relayed instructions to the Agents, via Charles, regarding which of the people on the list they could interview, stressing that they weren't to be specific about how the victim died. Charles chuckled as Lenore rolled her eyes in disgust.
      "Jesus, it's not like the procedure's changed any since I was on the force." The smaller woman grumbled, "I do remember how it goes."

"Sarah Walters?" Charles's smile was professionally distant as he addressed the sleep-tousled young woman watching them warily from behind a security screen. He held up his Met Police identification, introducing himself and the two Agents. "We understand you're a friend of Karen Thorne?"

Sarah sat slumped in stunned silence on the battered couch. She and Karen were good friends, they attended the same course at a local college...
      "Karen's... dead?"
      "I'm sorry to have to break it to you like this," Charles was genuinely sympathetic, "but we need to put together a picture of her movements, her life over the past few weeks."
      Sarah wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
      "Can't help much there, I'm afraid. She's been – was – so wrapped up in her new man I've barely seen her for almost a month."
      "'New man?'" Lenore inquired gently.
      "Terry." Sarah looked up, "I'm sorry, I don't know anything more about him. Karen never said much but I could tell she was very happy." She sank her head in her hands, starting to sob.
      "Is there someone we can call for you?" Lenore laid a comforting hand on the girl's shoulder.
      "My – my Mum, I'll call my Mum." Sarah pulled herself upright resolutely.

The trio interviewed the two others on their list, another college friend of the victim's and a friend from the hypermart where she'd worked. Or rather, Lenore and Charles interviewed them, Razor stood silent and increasingly uncomfortable in the background. The 'path had always despised this part of any investigation, watching the pathetic, emotional humans dissolve while Baxter tried to coax information out of them. It was all so pointless – all she had to do was go into their minds and retrieve what was needed. Quick, efficient, and without this unnecessary time-wasting compassion.
      But now... Razor couldn't help wondering what it would be like if it was Angel being interviewed – or if it was Angel that had been killed...

The stories from the two other interviewees were the same as Sarah's: neither of them had seen much of Karen for almost a month. She'd mentioned 'Terry' but hadn't said anything useful about him, like his last name, or where he lived, or what he looked like.
      Later, in the car as they drove to a combined meeting at the Met, Lenore growled in frustration.
      "So we've now got a name, which is probably false, and a description, which is also probably false!"
      "And a change in pattern," Charles added thoughtfully.
      "How so?" Lenore's frown cleared as she mentally sorted through the information, automatically sorting the similarities from the differences. "Of course. This time he's picked someone with friends, people who will miss the victim." The previous four women murdered had all been loners, with no significant friends or family."
      "Yes, but was it on purpose?" Charles' grey eyes were serious, "A deliberate change in plan or purely accidental? Is the victim's social life immaterial?"
      "And there was a longer gap between victims this time," Razor added.
      "You're right," Lenore said, "he left it for three weeks between murdering the last one and picking up Karen –"
      "And he was with her for a significantly longer period of time before he killed her." Charles finished. "But why?"

'Terry' was wondering the same thing.
      He'd wandered the significant distance home through dim canyons of streets where the sun's light rarely penetrated. Head down, hands thrust deep into jeans pockets, he mulled over this last relationship of his. Karen had lasted longer than any of the others. Why? There was no doubt she was hot in bed but so was Cecilia. And Gwen was a much better all round companion but she, like 'cilia had only lasted a week. Carmen didn't count, she was a disaster from the word go, timorous, fearful, a lousy lay - he'd been well rid of her after a day. And then he understood, suddenly it became clear; he hadn't wanted to dump Karen. It wasn't that she had anything more to offer really than anyone else but he'd felt a reluctance about ending it.
      Terry smiled ruefully to himself. Didn't matter how reluctant he was, the fact remained that his relationships never seemed to last, it was better that he end them before he got hurt. But knowing a relationship wasn't going to last didn't stop his need for them, didn't stop him optimistically keeping an eye out for the next one...

Razor and Lenore spent the rest of the day with the Police, co-ordinating the meagre findings - including the unwelcome theory that the murderer was a talent - shuffling the information around in an attempt to find a new angle, something, anything that could help solve the puzzle.
      It was an interminable day for Razor.
      Fully aware that only half of her attention was here in this room, the 'path nevertheless made an effort to follow the increasingly circular, frustrated arguments put forward by the flatscans. It was clear to her nothing was going to be resolved today – why couldn't they - why couldn't Maher - admit it? Then they could all leave and she could get back to Angel.
      Finally, finally, Maher called a halt to the discussion – about fours hours later than when it should've ended, Razor said in an acid *aside* to her partner – and the Agents were able to leave.
      Baxter was distracted as she piloted the car back to the Agency. It was no skin off Razor's nose that her partner was, for once, uncommunicative – the silence was pleasant, it gave her time to think of... other things.
      "Razor, did you know Casaccio's got an eidetic memory?"
      "Yes." The 'path sighed inwardly – she'd known the peace was too good to last. Then Razor sighed aloud, not needing to look at her partner to know that Baxter was waiting for her to elaborate.
      "Mahican couldn't scan Cassacio, her defences were too strong. I had to go in first."
      "Batter the doors down, eh?" Lenore wasn't entirely flippant.
      "Something like that."
      Razor fell silent, hoping Lenore would leave it alone. She should've known better.
      "I shouldn't be asking this –"
      "No. You shouldn't."
      "- but she intrigues me."
      Razor arched a fine dark eyebrow. What she'd seen in the psychometrist's mind was confidential –and unpleasant. Baxter, however, once she got onto something was like a bloody terrier. And the psi knew her partner would treat the information as confidential. Heh, and even if she didn't, it was a simple matter to go in and remove it at a later date...

"There was no indication that Cassacio was a talent until she was fourteen. One of her aunts had died, and at the funeral she dutifully kissed the corpse, just like everyone else, but as soon as she made contact her talent kicked in and blew her synapses."
      "Ouch!"
      "In a split second she'd had forced on her all the chronic, debilitating pain her aunt had lived with for decades and not told anyone about, along with all her spiralling anger and depression that no-one cared. Cassacio had a break-down and was duly packed off to a mental hospital where she was incarcerated for three years before anyone thought to get her checked out psionically."
      "Jesus, that's awful!"
      "Gets worse. While she was in that place her talent kept getting stronger and sharper. Everything she touched, every object, every surface, radiated insanity, rage, helplessness, despair. She spent most of the time curled into a corner trying to minimise contact with everything... Frankly I'm astonished she survived."
      Lenore was quiet, shocked into silence for a few minutes.
      "How was she found?"
      "Another patient's visitor, who happened to have a mild 'pathic talent, spotted something odd about her. They reported it to the Agency, and within a few hours Cassacio was being assessed at headquarters."
      "I can't imagine what it would've been like for her." Lenore shook her head.
      "You don't want to."
      The Agents drove the rest of the distance in thoughtful silence.

Angel was waiting for Razor when she came home and once they were safely private behind closed doors, the psi smiled down at the woman, running a finger down her furred cheek. Angel sighed happily, wrapping her arms tightly around Razor's waist and resting her cheek on her shoulder.
      "I missed you today."
      Razor wrapped her arms around the woman's shoulders and tentatively nuzzled her fragrant hair.
      *Missed you, too.*
      Angel looked up with a smile.
      *It's getting late. Shall we get something delivered for dinner?*
      *No, I'll cook. It's a good way for me to wind down.*
      *Hard day?* Angel's brow creased with concern.
      *Just uncomfortable.* Razor brushed a kiss over the frown. *But it's over and I can spend all evening with you.*
      *Good.* Angel pressed closer, letting one of her hands glide down over Razor's hip, making the 'path shiver...

It was no good. Terry stared up at the ceiling – he couldn't sleep, couldn't settle.
      He was hungry.

He sat up, swinging long, muscular legs over the side of the fold-down couch he used as a bed, and sighed. He knew from experience there was no use fighting, that only made the discontent more acute. Terry glanced out of the cracked window; it was dark, but not that late, still plenty of time to find a friend. He grinned good-naturedly to himself as he tugged on a pair of tight, clean jeans – you never know, maybe tonight he'd find the one, the girl of his dreams, the one who'd successfully feed his need. And if he didn't, it was always fun looking.
      An hour later, after prowling through the back streets between his squat and the nearest shopping precinct, Terry was strolling casually towards a pretty, dark-haired girl sitting by herself at a table at an all night fish'n'chip place. Lucky for him the place was crowded and the seat next to her was the only one available. Terry gazed down at her for a moment. Blonde, petite - she had her nose stuck in a text book, physics by the look of it.
      Intelligent, that was good, but could she hold a conversation?
      "Sorry," he smiled apologetically at her from beneath a dark, floppy fringe, "do you mind if I sit here?"
      She blinked as her brain rationalised her first impression of him with what she was seeing now – a tall, dark man, attractive without being overwhelming, a friendly open, face and appealing brown eyes.
      "No, go ahead." She smiled up at him, relaxed in her trust of this lovely stranger.
      "Thanks," he put his plastic plate of greasy food on the table then squeezed into the seat beside her. His eyes twinkled. "My name's Terry, by the way."
      "Louise." She smiled shyly. "Pleased to meet you..."

© 2003 April 7^th Lutra

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Leech pt 2

Darkside