Page 65 of Savage Seduction

“What?”

“Says here he was part of an underground cult.”

“Really?” I cock my head. “Could that be like the Followers of Kali? Did they even have serial killers back then?”

“Keep reading,” she says. “It says Kingsley was a southern gentleman who was obsessed with those who killed. Not those who killed for the Confederacy, but those who killed for the pleasure of it. Sounds pretty much like a serial killer to me.” She turns to look at me.

“What else does it say? Was he simply interested in wanting to know what makes people tick or was he the one killing?”

London turns back to the computer. She scrolls through page after page of images that are both fascinating and awful. Kingsley took photos of himself standing next to soldiers who’d died in battle. In some of the pictures, the soldier appeared to still be alive, and Kingsley stood next to him smiling as if he’d just downed an exotic beast on safari.

She clears her throat and shakes her head. “Wow, according to this document, Kingsley was rumored to have spent hours walking through battlefields looking for soldiers who’d not succumbed to their injuries. Rather than rendering them aid, it says he documented their injuries and then…” London puts a hand to her mouth.

“And then… what?” I ask.

“He would pinch their throats, closing off their breathing.” She swallows hard. “Kingsley would kill for thepleasure of feeling their last breath in his hands—earning him the nickname, The Devil’s Hand.”

“That sick bastard,” I say. “I wonder if the Followers of Kali have been around ever since Kingsley started his killing spree?”

We scan through some more of the pictures, looking for more clues. Something that would tell us about the whereabouts of the cult members now, or at the very least a list of members.

“I don’t see anything in here that would indicate who is a current member of the group.” London continues to scroll through pages of information and photographs when she abruptly stops.

“What’s wrong?”

London sits back in her chair and crosses her arms. “Can’t be. No way.”

“What?” My blood pressure rises. “You’re making me nervous.”

“What is that?” She points at the background image in a portrait of Kingsley.

“A desk or something?” I squint at the screen.

“No, on the desk.”

I lean in to get a better look. “Are you able to enhance the image?”

London enlarges the image of the painting, runs a scan of it through a software program, and sits back and waits. Before our eyes, the pixilated photograph begins to clear.

“Right there,” London says. “Next to Thomas Kingsley.”

Sitting on a table is a large ankh. London zooms in further on the photograph.

My pulse starts to race. “Coincidence?”

She shakes her head, the look of pity on her face making me want to scream, but what else could I expect from her? From anyone, for that matter? No one would fully understandwhat I’ve been through unless they went through it themselves, and I didn’t wish that upon anyone.

“I’m absolutely sick over this for you,” London says. “What should we do? We have to figure out where The Butcher or his crazy asshole followers are so we can stop them.”

“I don’t have any idea where to start.” I look off in the distance. London has two black and white photographs on her wall next to the closet.

They remind me of photos taken through a telephoto lens during the Cold War espionage era. I’m about to ask who is in the photograph when it hits me. Pulling out my phone, I say, “I almost forgot. I was in Dr. Nakamura’s office today to get a package that was left for me, and I found an envelope with photos of me inside.”

“What? Weird. Why would she have pics of you?” London looks disgusted, as if Catherine was a lecherous old predator after me.

“I don’t know, but I snapped a few of my own so I could look at them later.”

“Let me see.” She holds out her hand.

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