Read an Excerpt
Splintered Souls
A Kathryn Kane Mystery
By Cynthia Lyn
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 Cynthia Lyn
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4634-2649-1
Chapter One
After long and intense scrutiny, he chose his next victim. He finally found her, after searching for a long time. She stood out like a lightning bolt. The chosen one. His internal world was now silent, peaceful. The voices of chaos slipped into quiet oblivion.
He tapped his stir-stick on the polished black granite countertop of the bar, making circles in the liquid left from the condensation on the bottom of his beer glass. The circle of life is like the rhythmic orbit of revolving doors. We begin and we end. But where? In or out? If life is a cycle, where does it begin? Where does it end in the circular motion called life? Moreover, is tonight a beginning or an ending? Maybe both? A beginning for one and an ending for another? The observer chuckled. A smarmy smile plasticized his face. Evil emanated from his inner core. Ironically, he assumed the posture of someone of prominence. But truthfully, he held little memorability; his presence and his face were easily forgotten. But being the dreamer that he was, he was unable to comprehend the miscalculation of his popularity, for he was mad. He was not in touch with reality. His life was a fantasy, and in his fantasies, he was handsome, always sporting a winning smile. His wavy, raven hair caressed the back of his neck, giving him a misguided aura of sensuality. He could have been handsome, if only his outer physicality had not been marred by the scars of his troubled soul. In his dreams, he was popular and loved, possessing a charm and charisma that he thought garnered adoration from female admirers. But the distortion of his fantasies gave him a false sense of security, clouding reality. Because in all actuality, his heart was as hard and cold as stone; an icy shroud, bitter as lemon drops.
As if awakening from a fugue state, suddenly hearing the sounds of the club, he dropped the stir stick on the bar and looked up and around the club. He was plucked from his reverie by a woman in red. He reluctantly accepted his present reality and thought about a possible delicious night forthcoming. He occupied his usual spot, same barstool, same place. Attired in his usual black business suit and his red power tie, he fit in with all the other after-work groupies. He looked up and saw her through the gilded mirror behind the bar. He clenched and unclenched his hands around his glass at the sight of the woman in red and her flirtatious guise. His lips formed a snarl.
Just look at her! Men are clinging to her like flies stuck to flypaper. She thinks she is fooling them. But not me. I know who she really is. She toys with them with a sense of entitlement as if they were her latest acquisition. Her long, silky auburn hair feathers her face with a sense of abandonment, for it to only fall forward again over those sulky evil eyes that sensually lure her prey into her web of deceit. Her lithe, well-muscled, and curvaceous body draws them even closer as she stands against the bar, holding a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other, with perfectly manicured red nails. Her form-fitting red dress rides up her thigh as she stretches her long leg to rest on the base of the bar. She now tilts her head sideways with her ear close to the lips of her next possible conquest, as though she were effortlessly captivated by his words. While bending forward, she displays just enough cleavage to entice them further. Her red lips curl up at the edges as she laughs giddily, as if to convey an intrigued interest. Three men are each zealously hoping to be the chosen one. But she is just teasing them. She's not going to choose any one of them. They are such fools! Look at them! Ogling her with such transparent egotism.
He wanted to shout at them, "You idiots, can't you see that you are just playthings to her?" But he didn't, of course. Let them find out on their own what fools they are. He was watching her; every Friday night for four weeks now. She made an exotic entrance, accompanied by girlfriends who quickly disappear into the smoky, darkly lit catacomb of the club. Sluts! All of them! But especially this auburn-haired beauty who ingratiates herself into the hearts of foolish besotted men. Wickedly using her unbridled sensuality as an intoxicant, she seduces men as tokens and then discards them, as if they were garbage to be dumped in the nearest trashcan. He took an imperceptible sip of his glass of beer, as he nodded with a toast to the woman in red. For an instant, he thought their eyes connected with an intense acknowledgment of recognition. But she quickly averted her eyes nonchalantly as she confirmed his nonexistence. "You sanctimonious little bitch!" he murmured quietly to himself. You'll pay for treating me with such disregard. His barely controlled rage was boiling so close to the surface, he could feel the heat rolling off him like steam in a sauna.
"Pardon me? Did you say something, sir?" the brawny bartender inquired.
The observer managed to disguise his rage with a swift change of expression.
"No, I'm sorry. I was just thinking about work. It's been a tough week. The boss has been on my case. Ya know what I mean?" he said. "I didn't realize that I had spoken out loud." With a grimace, he apologized. "What's worse is when I start answering myself." He cajoled and plastered a phony smile across his face.
"No problem. I have some rough nights in here myself. The weekends are the worst. By Monday, my day off, I'm only too glad to veg out on the couch. I need to recharge my batteries after the chaotic weekends here." He laughed. "Can I get you another one?" he asked as he pointed to his empty glass. The bartender's gaze lingered for a moment on this bizarre man. Then after this drink, please get the hell outta here. Creep! This guy is a few cards short of a full deck. He comes in every Friday night, devouring the women, never really talkin' to anyone, just looking with an expression akin to disgust. Tonight he has his eyes on Jenna, a nice woman. Actually, he's been checkin' her out for a few weeks now. He sits on the same bar stool every week, playin' the same damn song, "Are You Watching Me Now" from the movie A Star Is Born. Yeah, I'm watchin' ya, creep. And don't even think about touchin' Jenna. A degree of malice crept into his conscience thought. Tiny the bartender was protective of his regulars, especially those he cared for. There was something special about Jenna Jones. She always had a smile for him, treating him like a human being, unlike some others who frequented the club.
"Sure, one more of the same," the observer said as he eyed the whore. Stop staring at her! Face the bartender! I can't be that transparent; I must look like any ordinary person having a couple of drinks after a long week of work. Blend in with the crowd. He nodded another thanks as the big, burly bartender set the glass down in front of him. An ice-cold brew in a frosted glass. What could be better? A brew and a broad. Just one more and then I'll nonchalantly leave. Can't be too wasted. Must have my wits about me. I'll leave. And then wait.
He waited outside for what seemed to be an eternity. The busy sidewalks and streets of the city obscured his shadow into nothingness. Just another body in a sea of faces.
The exit door suddenly burst open as the wind grabbed a ferocious hold on it, and then banged it against the exterior wall. Finally. There she was.
"I'll talk to you tomorrow, Janet," she said as the wind whipped her red dress up her legs and her hair around her face. She held her dress down with one hand, and held her hair in place with the other as she spoke.
"Wait, Jim and I will walk you to your car," the woman named Janet shouted over the wind.
No! I've waited too long for this. I've chosen you!
"No, it's not necessary. Besides, I'm parked just around the corner. It's a busy street with lots of people. I'll be fine. Thanks, anyway."
"Sure? We wouldn't mind. Really."
"No. Go on and have some fun. I'll be fine. Really. Home in no time. It's been a long week." She replied with a frozen breath, emitting a vaporous cloud.
"Okay. If you're sure. See you Wednesday then." Burrowing her face in her coat, Janet and her friend walked briskly in the December cold toward their car parked a block away, not realizing they'd never see their friend again.
It's time. Concentrate. The wait is over. He removed the handkerchief soaked in chloroform from his inside jacket pocket, slithered up from behind, and covered her mouth. She fell like putty into his arms and never knew what hit her.
Jenna, regaining consciousness, was dizzy, nausea churning in her belly. Her vision clouded, she saw a shadow of a man. Where am I? What happened? She was trying to remember, perplexed, her mind foggy, as if her brain had gone haywire. "Who are you?" she barely whispered to the creature standing in the shadows.
"Ah, so, you're awake," he replied without answering her. His gaze lingered over her from head to toe. Malice touched the corners of his eyes. "As if you didn't know! You looked right at me!"
A brief incensed hesitation ensued. "What? I don't even know you."
Finally, he mumbled, "I am someone who'll help you escape from the lies you've been told." He appeared mesmerized, somewhere else or in some other time, maybe in a past life. Then he came back. "I help people disappear ... like that! Like a magician." He snapped his fingers. "Poof! Here today, gone tomorrow!"
Her chin shot up, and she froze. What did he just say? A magician? An unexpected chuckle escaped from her throat. Then feeling a sense of déjà vu, she thought, Where have I heard that before? That phrase ... poem ... song ... the lies I've been told? The memory was so close, but unfortunately, just beyond her mental grasp. She's heard that phrase before. But where? "Who are you really? What's your name?" Deep heavy silence followed. Jenna pleaded with her outstretched hands. "What do you want from me? Money? I've got ... money." She whimpered. Her throat felt paralyzed, her voice deafened by her own thundering heartbeat.
Suddenly snapping back to reality, he threw daggers of glaring distrust her way. His facial expression was clothed with scorn like a second skin. "Think that was funny, huh? You'll see how funny it was when I'm through with you! I saw you looking at me in the bar. Like I was some kind of insect! And I don't want or need your money, whore!"
Panic and fear wrapped around her like a barbed wire fence. Palms up, she replied, "What? Looked at you where? I'm sorry." She grew silent for a moment, her head trying to escape into her lap. She lifted her head and squinted, trying to place where she'd seen this guy before. "Wait a minute! You're the guy in the bar! I've seen you in there a few times. But I swear I never paid any attention to you. I mean ... I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I mean, I didn't see you." She heaved a heavy sigh. Her voice quivered as fear threatened to collapse her inner strength, whatever was left of it. She clutched her throat. "What would you want with me?" As panic trapped her like a vise, sorrowful rivers of regret fought for control as she placed her hands on her face in anguish. "What were you doing in that club? Scoping me out? Why? Why me?" Her voice cracked.
"Why you, indeed." He stood, dismissing her questions, and started for the kitchen. "Enough questions. You hungry?"
Confused by his abruptness, she frowned. She felt disgust, but quickly assumed a bland expression, fearing untoward recrimination. "No, I'm not hungry," She stated. "I would just like to go home."
"Well, you're not going home. And you are going to eat. I've been cooking something very special for you while you've been sleeping. And you are gonna eat it! Got that?" The shadow receded into the background, probably for the kitchen.
Cooking? Cooking what? And why would he care if I were hungry or not? He kidnapped me, for chrissakes! There was a strange smell permeating the air, but just what it was, Jenna couldn't decipher. Befuddled and frightened, she just nodded as she huddled closer into the sofa, as if she could disappear within the plaid pattern of the fabric. She observed her surroundings, her heart thumping in her chest. Cold, so cold, even though the sweat of fear laced her forehead. Some sort of cottage, fallen into neglect. Smells like mold and the sweet smell of chloroform. The nausea was revolting.
He was coming back from the kitchen. Fear emanated from her pores, her face bone pale. She glanced out the back windows at the salt-colored sky and saw what looked like a lake about fifty yards from the dwelling she now occupied. Daylight? How long have I been out? Where is this place? What lake is that? The bare trees threw skeletal shadows, twirling dead leaves in their wake.
He put a bowl of what looked like porridge on the scarred maple coffee table in front of her. Steam billowed up from the soup-sized bowl, creating an even more putrid smell. Chunks of what looked like mushrooms bubbled to the surface of the concoction. Mushroom soup? Doesn't smell like it.
"Eat something now!" he demanded.
"I can't. I think I'm gonna throw up," Jenna mumbled.
"Too bad, little lady. Maybe some food will help your stomachache."
"Noo! I'm sick. Please!" Her green eyes pleaded with him.
Like a snake hissing, the threat of attack evident in the evil squint of his eyes and the coiling posture of his body, he towered over her.
Recoiling in mortal fear, she nodded. "Okay. Okay, okay," she said as she tried to distance herself from evil masked in human form, leaning back as far as possible as he cowered over her. She looked up at him. This close, he was more than a shadow; average height, about five feet eleven to six feet, Caucasian, hair dark, shaggy, and dirty; not bad looking, except for his eyes, green soulless eyes, empty eyes. He had a muscular torso and was dressed in jeans and a zippered dark navy sweatshirt with a hood. A "hoody" entered her mind, as the young kids called them. Dark tennis shoes; he must have changed his clothes, she thought. She refocused on the food in front of her and tried a spoonful. She gagged, but managed to keep it down. Then another. Finally, she couldn't tolerate any more without vomiting. Bile rose to her throat. It tasted terrible, like moldy garbage.
"I can't eat any more," she pleaded as she handed him the half-eaten bowl of whatever it was. Not any kind of soup she ever tasted, that's for sure.
"All right. For now. But you'll eat some more later. Maybe wash it down with a little whiskey. Makes it go down easier. Always worked for me. Now get up."
Whiskey? I'll really throw up. She cowered in fear. Her heart was knocking painfully against her chest. Sweat glistening on her brow, she felt breathless. And what does he mean, "It always worked for me"? Did someone force him to eat this garbage?
"Come on with me. Figured you'd be a little tired after eating." He reached down for her arm and pulled her to her feet, nearly dislodging her shoulder. Her fear overpowered any physical pain she felt. "Just a little nap in the bedroom over there." He pointed to a door off the dining room.
This guy is bizarre. First food, and now rest. What's up with this freak? "I'm not ... tired. I just woke up. I really want to go home. Please!" Trying to maintain control, she failed miserably as he grabbed her and pushed her toward the bedroom door.
"You're really pushing my limits, lady. If I were you, I'd shut up right about now. You don't know what I'm capable of."
She shuffled toward the bedroom with a drug-induced gait. Ophidian cipher, she thought. She was heavy-hearted with emotional pain. She never said good-bye to her parents.
Once in the bedroom, he threw her on the metal-framed bed and tied her feet and arms with rope and duct tape, spread-eagled to the bedposts.
"I ... I can't sleep like this!" she exclaimed.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Splintered Souls by Cynthia Lyn Copyright © 2011 by Cynthia Lyn. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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