Page 29 of Silent Stalker

My head pounds as I push myself off the couch. "Give me ten minutes to get dressed."

"Make it five. And Clara? Bring your camera. The scene won't last long in this weather."

I hang up and rush to my bedroom, pulling on the first clean clothes I find. My reflection catches my eye—the marks on my neck from last night are still visible. I grab a scarf, wrapping it tight.

The doorbell rings just as I'm sliding on my boots. James stands there in his usual detective stance, but his face is pale.

"That bad?" I ask.

He nods. "Six geese a-laying. But there's nothing natural about how they're laying. The precision of the cuts, the arrangement... it's like some twisted art exhibition."

My forensic mind kicks in, pushing aside thoughts of Silas and last night. "Any witnesses?"

"None. Town square's been dead quiet since the curfew." He guides me to his car. "But get this—these weren't just random geese. They were tagged. Belonged to the Parker family farm outside town."

"The Parkers?" My chest tightens. "Their son Michael was?—”

"Our first victim. Yeah." James starts the engine. "Coincidence? Or calculated?"

"Calculated for sure. Nothing this killer does is a coincidence."

The town square's only minutes away, but each second feels like an eternity. Six geese. The sixth day. The killer's sticking to his Christmas theme but changing the rules. Why?

The police barricade comes into view, a wall of blue uniforms holding back the press. Camera flashes burst like lightning against the gray morning sky. James pulls up behind a patrol car, and I step out into the biting December air.

"Dr. Hart!" A reporter shoves a microphone toward my face. "Is this the work of the Christmas Reaper?"

"No comment." I push past the crowd, ducking under the yellow tape. The scene hits me in full force.

Six geese lie in a perfect circle. Their wings spread wide like fallen angels in the fresh snow. Each neck has been slit with surgical precision, blood frozen in crimson streams. Their bodies form a grotesque wreath, heads pointing inward toward a small object in the center.

"What's that?" I point, and James hands me a pair of latex gloves.

"Music box." He crouches beside me as I examine it. "Still playing when we found it."

I recognize the tinny melody. "The Twelve Days of Christmas."

"Dr. Hart!" Another reporter calls out. "Why animals instead of people? Is the killer losing his nerve?"

"He's not losing anything," I mutter, studying the careful positioning of each bird. "This is deliberate."

The geese weren't just killed—they were arranged with the same mathematical precision as the human victims. Each wing spans the same distance, creating perfect symmetry. Their necks twisted at identical angles. Grotesquely, it's like beautiful art.

"He could have had a field day with six human victims." My fingers trace the air above one goose's wing. "But he chose not to. Why?"

"Maybe he's toying with us?" James suggests.

I shake my head, remembering similar precision in other cases I've studied. "No. This is about control. The killer wants to show us they decide who lives and dies, when and how."

The music box continues its cheerful tune, a jarring contrast to the macabre display. As I study the scene, I can't shake the feeling that I'm missing something obvious. Something right in front of me.

I rub my temples, staring at the bloody snow until my vision blurs. The answer hovers at the edge of my consciousness, like a word stuck on the tip of my tongue. Something about the mathematical precision, the music box, the connection to the Parker family...

"Clara?" James touches my shoulder. "You've been staring at that spot for ten minutes."

"I know there's something here." I gesture at the grotesque display. "The killer wants us to see it, but I can't..." My hands clench in frustration.

"Hey." James steps closer. "When's the last time you slept? Really slept?"

---