Page 54 of Darkness

The brick and siding two-story house sat on a quiet, tree-lined street in a neighborhood with BMWs parked in driveways or pricey trucks visible through open garage doors, though many residents should be at work. A few folks on porches gawked at the six squad cars flashing lights at the end of a cul-de-sac.

Squad cars didn’t bode well for what they might find.

Clipped conversations squawked through radios when Farren exited an FBI-assigned car. Atlanta PD officers watched Farren and Morrisey with suspicion in their eyes. They weren’t told what set Farren and Morrisey apart other than they were FBI specialists, but local cops didn’t like deferring to federal agencies.

A few likely recognized Morrisey from Atlanta PD.

Farren ignored them, trudging past a half dozen uniformed officers to the open front door, reassured by Morrisey’s steady footsteps behind him.

Why, though? Farren was an alien. A motherfucking honest-to-goodness alien, at least in the eyes of humans. Though Morrisey had likely met worse people who wore suits and ties and pretended to be superior to everyone else.

Farren accepted gloves and shoe covers at the front door, donning his and waiting for Morrisey to do the same.

Morrisey took a long breath, cheeks blowing out with his exhale. He closed his eyes, breathing slowly in and out. His demeanor changed when he reopened them. Gone was the grumpy cop. All emotion fled. Morrisey stepped inside the room on a mission, taking in details. Farren could almost see wheels turning in Morrisey’s mind.

Morrisey took a few steps and turned, performing a sweeping grid pattern, gaze firmly fixed on whatever lay directly in front of him. He took out a notepad and pen from his pocket, proceeding to scrawl on the paper in a seemingly erratic pattern.

Farren drew closer. Morrisey didn’t seem to register anything but the room, not even looking at the pen and paper.

Farren angled to catch a glimpse. His breath caught. Morrisey had drawn a perfect diagram of the scene, the placement of furniture, the odds and ends lying around.

“They found the bodies in the bedroom,” Farren said.

“Something happened out here.” Morrisey pointed to a cell phone lying on the floor, then to a nearby shoe. “See that? This room is immaculate. Those things didn’t happen by chance.” He continued drawing a perfect sketch of the room before wandering farther into the house.

He stopped in the hallway, stooping low. A single drop of blood stained the carpet. Morrisey once more performed his mapping ritual, checking every room, staying in some only a minute. Finally, he led the way to the back of the house, where the blood scent grew cloying.

Morrisey stopped at a bedroom doorway, flipping his notepad to another page. The herbal tang was much stronger here. For long moments he simply stood there, swiveling his head slowly from left to right. Farren hardly noticed the movement at all, only that he’d moved.

“What do you smell?” Farren asked.

“What? Smell? I can’t smell nothing but blood.”

The blood was overpowering, so maybe Morrisey couldn’t smell the distinct traveler scent, or maybe he lacked the ability. Just because he saw travelers for what they were didn’t mean he’d have more Magestra-style talents.

Morrisey stepped into the room, pausing at the first body. Farren didn’t need a comparison photo to determine the victim—the nurse and unlikely host to the traveler who’d tried to possess Morrisey. Switching bodies twice within a short period took immense power.

The traveler had eaten well prior to the first attack.

The nurse’s body remained intact. The blood smeared on her clothing and hands belonged to someone else. A bloody knife and a corkscrew littered the floor.

The other two victims weren’t so lucky.

Another female lay nearby, one foot missing a shoe. The shoe from the living room. The lack of blood in the living room and one drop on the hall carpet said she’d run into this room where she’d met her fate. Farren squatted by the body. Stab wounds covered her arms and neck, and bloody cuts marked defensive wounds on her hands. She’d gone down fighting. Closer examination showed samples of the perp’s skin beneath her fingernails. A golden chain hung from her neck that a thief would’ve stolen.

The third victim lay facedown on the carpet in a pool of blood, hands protectively covering her head. She wore a pair of jeans and a bra. A shirt lay on the bed. She’d been taken by surprise while dressing. Bloody gashes covered her back, most shallow, meant to frighten, not kill, then deeper ones. Bloody impressions on either side of the body showed where knees had been. The killer had straddled her body. No defensive wounds. She’d tried to run.

The diamond engagement ring on her finger must’ve cost a small fortune, but the perp hadn’t been interested in valuables. The traveler-possessed roommate had been after the kill.

Morrisey performed his dance, evaluating the room in a grid pattern, studying the victims dispassionately, the twitch in his jaw the only sign of the scene affecting him.

He drew, rendering the precise location of each piece of evidence, even without cards laid out by forensics. His sketch might be hasty, but it captured details a camera might not. He circled items, adding notes.

He stopped after ten minutes, dropping his gaze to Farren’s. “Oh, shit. I should’ve asked as soon as we got here. Can you do your thing?”

“I’ll try, though they’ve been dead for at least a few hours. Watch the door.”

While Morrisey watched from the door, Farren lay beside the nurse, removed a glove, and placed his bare wrist against hers. Pain. Confusion.

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