Riven

By Teresa van der Kraan

Detective Leonard Warren is obsessively hunting notorious serial killer, Virgil Hallows. On the other side of the world, Dana Smiths is trying to prepare for her wedding. Yet Dana shares a mysterious psychic connection with the murderer, allowing her glimpses into his twisted life. Hallows is drawn to her home town, and, soon, to Dana herself. Warren harbours an intense personal grudge, preventing him from treating the investigation objectively. Dana is too preoccupied to realise that her fiancee, Tobias, is cheating on her. Despite receiving support from her friends, Dana's unwelcome powers seem to drive a wedge between her and her partner. As Dana becomes an unofficial consultant in the investigation, it becomes clear that Hallows has unfinished business in her hometown, with people close to her. Dana's promiscuous neighbour, Mort, wishes only to party and is not eager to dredge up the past; neither is morbid funeral director Dennis Fairweather. By the time Dana realises that she has taken her powers for granted, Mort and Dennis have no choice left, and many lives are at stake. As the bond between Dana and Hallows strengthens, Dana realises that she has become his new, and most significant, target.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Teresa van der Kraan
• Release date: Jun 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005636593

Teresa van der Kraan

Teresa van der Kraan was born in Australia to European parents, and has been interested in writing fiction since a very young age. She has been involved since age 14 in local writing initiatives and centres in her home town of Armidale, NSW. As of 2014, Teresa undertook university study at the University of New England (UNE), graduating in 2018 with a Bachelors Degree majoring in International History. She completed her Honours degree in 2019, on the subject of veterans in Weimar Germany, and as of 2020 has begun writing her PhD thesis on German and Austrian fascism. In her free time, Teresa is a horror movie addict, and loves to spend time with friends and her cats.

Book preview

Chapter Twenty: The Link

Chapter Twenty-One: Thoughts of Death

Chapter Twenty-Two: Dana & the Dark Angel

Chapter Twenty-Three: Tobias Protects Dana

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Descent into Enlightenment

Chapter Twenty-Five: The Lonely Lock

Chapter Twenty-Six: Formal Invitations

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Peppermint & Cigarettes

Chapter Twenty-Eight: To Convalesce & Regree

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Family Dinner

Chapter Thirty: An Inch of Life

Chapter Thirty-One: There Goes the Bride

Chapter Thirty-Two: Drive

Chapter Thirty-Three: Designer Fakes

Chapter Thirty-Four: Whispers in the Dark

Chapter Thirty-Five: La Mort de Coeur

Chapter Thirty-Six: Flight of the Felons

Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Vigilante

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Rest Eternal

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Rosebud

Chapter Forty: Rifts & Reconciliations

Chapter Forty-One: All Roads

Chapter Forty-Two: The Debutant

Chapter Forty-Three: Warren's New Recruit

Chapter Forty-Four: Ties

Chapter Forty-Five: The Witching Hour

Chapter Forty-Six: The Inner Circle

Chapter Forty-Seven: A Step Ahead

Chapter Forty-Eight: Like Father, Like Son

Chapter Forty-Nine: Doris' Curse

Chapter Fifty: The Illicit Tongue

Chapter Fifty-One: The Grim Reaper

Chapter Fifty-Two: The Unknown Soldier

Chapter Fifty-Three: The Fairweather Threnody

Chapter Fifty-Four: Honesty

Chapter Fifty-Five: The Ordained

Chapter Fifty-Six: Divined Entwined

Chapter Fifty-Seven: In Flames

Chapter Fifty-Eight: The Revenge of Virgil Hallows

Chapter Fifty-Nine: Mire

Chapter Sixty: Broken

Other Titles by Teresa van der Kraan

Prologue

October Days

From an early age, Dennis Fairweather had been fascinated by death. His first accurate memory was of being in his mother’s kitchen as a three-year-old, his pale little hands resting upon his bare knees, as he squatted down to examine a motionless cockroach lying on its back a few centimetres from the base of the refrigerator.

Dennis would later recall that he had been wearing his church clothes at the time (black shorts, a long-sleeved white shirt, and a small black tie), which indicated that the incident must have taken place on a Sunday morning, before the Fairweather family had left to attend a service.

His baby brother Gabriel had been screaming from his high chair on the opposite side of the kitchen, as his mother, Gladys, tried to feed him a breakfast of mashed peas. His father, Vincent, had been bustling about upstairs, searching for his favourite necktie, and cursing himself for being unable to find it. In the midst of this typical Sunday morning commotion, Dennis had poked the cockroach with one finger. When it did not react, he had asked of his mother: "Why won’t it mooove?"

Dennis was obliged to repeat his question three more times before he succeeded in provoking a reaction from the preoccupied Gladys. Finally turning from the baby to see what her eldest son was doing, she had shrieked: Stop touching that filthy thing!, and had yanked him away from the fridge, spanking him several times in quick succession as punishment. Dennis wept a little bit, but recovered quickly. He repeated his question for a fifth time—whereupon he finally received an answer: Because it’s dead. Now, let’s wash your hands, Dennis, and we won’t speak of this again.

Gladys lifted Dennis into her arms and carried him over to the sink, as Gabriel, enraged that he was no longer the centre of attention, upended the bowl of mashed peas from the tray of his high-chair, sending his breakfast splattering onto the floor.

* *

Seventeen years after the incident with the cockroach, a twenty-year-old Dennis Fairweather thoughtfully repeated his late mother’s words to himself in his deep, soft voice: …Because it’s dead…; as he traced his pasty fingertips over a black-and-white photograph of a woman’s corpse in his mortuary science textbook.

The passage beside the picture explained how autopsies were performed, and elucidated that the enormous dark scar that extended from the base of the woman’s abdomen, dividing into two forks on either side of her sternum, was known to coroners as a ‘y-incision’. It would be Fairweather’s job, as a mortician, to disguise such disfigurements with make-up, in the likelihood that he would have to orchestrate an open-casket funeral in which the corpse’s shoulders might be exposed.

Such beauty and harmony, murmured Fairweather, moving the tip of his pen onto a blank leaf of his notebook, jotting down a few facts from the textbook in a sloping, elegant script, …and yet they would have me strive to simulate life upon her face. Why?

In concentration, Fairweather leant so close to the page that the tip of his protruding nose brushed against it; he made a few more notes, thankful for the solitude with which the library provided him.

He was sitting at a table in the least conspicuous corner of the room: in front of the back wall, behind a towering bookshelf devoted to tomes on war and history. The university library was a beautiful, old-fashioned building with a cavernous ceiling and windows set high upon the walls. Dennis usually went there after his morning classes to study in private, before walking home in the afternoon.

A few years ago, after their father Vincent had been shot and killed while on duty as a police officer, Dennis and Gabriel had been sent to live in Nis City with their aunt Beatrice Baxter—Gladys’ elder sister. Although Dennis was fond of Aunt Beatrice, he was saddened by the fact that she did not reside within walking distance of the cemetery, which was a large, gothic, and exceptionally beautiful place.

Dennis drew a deep breath and set his pen down. He yawned and stretched his arms above his head, the sleeves of his black shirt slipping downwards to reveal his pale wrists—heavily scarred from the numerous times he had attacked them with the blade of his pocket knife. At fifteen, he had done so with the intention of ending his life, and he would probably have succeeded, had it not been for Vincent, who had arrived home from work just in time to call an ambulance. Since then, Dennis and Gabriel had both been visiting a psychiatrist on a regular basis, at the Nis City Psychiatric Institution. Dennis believed, to this day, that Dr Nancy Abraham’s kindness towards him (along with the anti-depressants that she prescribed) had prevented him from attempting suicide again after the death of his father. It had been a long time, however, since Dennis had taken his medication, and now, as he stared down at his wrists, he felt the familiar sense of despair steal over him; so potent that he actually experienced a physical constrictive feeling in his chest.

Resting his head against the pages of his textbook, he closed his eyes for a few moments. When he opened them again, the first thing he saw was his only friend at university, Doris Ellis, strolling into view from behind one of the tall, dusty bookshelves, dressed in high-waisted blue jeans and a purple cardigan, her brown satchel slung over one shoulder.

Dennis felt a lurching sensation in his stomach, and his heart began to beat faster within his chest. Since his very first day at uni —when he had initially caught sight of her sitting beneath a tree— he had been infatuated by Doris’ understated beauty and overwhelmed by her loveliness.

A student of photography, Doris was a plump girl of nineteen, with grey eyes, dimpled cheeks, and an auburn bob hairstyle. For weeks, Dennis had admired her from afar, not daring to actually approach her. Doris, however, had taken pity upon the skulking, dour young man, and had gone out of her way to get to know him, even though she did not reciprocate his affections. Doris was romantically involved with somebody else: an aspiring runway model by the name of Mortimer Harrison. Dennis had tried, many times before, to warn Doris of Mortimer’s unworthiness, but Doris had flatly refused to listen on every occasion.

As though lost, Doris now glanced worriedly back in the direction whence she had come, hitched her satchel further up onto her shoulder, and then turned around, looking relieved when she finally caught sight of Dennis sitting in his corner.

Dennis raised his head from his textbook, his thin, pale lips quivering as he tried to greet the approaching Doris—but he found that he was unable to talk; he could hardly even breathe.

Hello Dennis– I’m glad I found you. Though I’m not exactly surprised, Doris said distractedly, as she lowered herself into one of the three free chairs remaining around Dennis’ table. I hope I’m not interrupting. I realise you must be pretty busy reading up on… well— she nodded down at Dennis’ book, not quite looking at it.

Th-there is nothing so important to me as to render your presence unwanted, Fairweather replied, his heart beating faster still, as he waited to see how Doris would receive these heartfelt words. But Doris gave no more than a brief, preoccupied smile, before she went on seriously: Dennis… can I trust you?

I… I would never do anything to wrong you, Dennis muttered, frowning at Doris’ oddly tense disposition. He leant closer to her, concerned. What is it, Doris? What is troubling you?

Doris bit her under-lip. Fairweather stared down at her right hand, idly resting on the desktop, and wished that he could summon enough strength to stroke it with his own, but his limbs seemed to have seized up.

It’s just that… I’m afraid my other friends might say something to Mort, Doris muttered, "…but I’m sure you won’t, because you don’t really even talk to him much, do you? I’m sorry to be burdening you with this, Dennis… it’s not like it’s anything to do with you, but… Doris shut her eyes for a moment, her eyelids fluttering as she drew a deep, steadying breath. Finally, with what seemed a tremendous effort, she disclosed: I- I think I’m pregnant."

For almost a full ten seconds, Dennis was too astounded to respond. A dull sense of rage, aimed towards Doris’ boyfriend, began to well up inside of him; but he did not dare express it. Are you certain of it? he breathed.

Yes, Doris said heavily, her shoulders shuddering as she resisted the urge to cry. I took the test this morning. I don’t know what to do. You’re the first person I’ve told. M-my friends… I’m afraid they’d tell him… an-and I don’t think he w-wants children… but I just d-don’t want him to leave me—

He is unworthy of you, Dennis interrupted, unable to contain his feelings any longer. He looked at Doris with force and determination, his black eyes smouldering and intense as they met her grey ones. A woman deserves to be treated as a goddess… to be worshiped for her body, wisdom, and gentle spirit. And he– he– I have seen what he does… he is loyal to no one save himself. My own brother will attest—

Stop, Doris said impatiently, waving a hand to silence him. "Mort’s always been wonderful. He’s never said anything mean about you, so I certainly don’t want to hear anything you’ve got to say about him, unless it’s actually helpful. I’m starting to think I shouldn’t have come to you, Dennis," she added bluntly, turning away from him.

Fairweather made no further protests, knowing that, however much he might want to speak ill of Mort, he really did not have any right to do so after the things he had done himself. Yet the fact remained that Dennis knew Mort’s true character, and Mort knew Dennis’; but Doris failed to see either of them for what they actually were, simply because she was determined to believe the best of them both.

Although Doris did not know it, Dennis was in the habit of following her in the late afternoon—when she usually walked from the university to the small suburban house that she shared with her father: an intimidating man by the name of Ernest Ellis.

Over the past year-and-a-half, Dennis had grown familiar with Mr Ellis’ garden, the exterior of his house, and, in particular, the window of his daughter’s bedroom.

At the expense of sustaining scratches and grazes to his hands and face, Fairweather frequently crawled into the row of bushes that separated the Ellises’ yard from the one on the left. Disguised by twigs and leaves, he ensured himself a decent view (aided, more often than not, by his aunt’s binoculars) into Doris’ bedroom, on the condition that she did not shut the curtains. If need be, Fairweather was willing to remain in the bushes for hours on end; in his view, the wait was well worthwhile, as long as he was rewarded at the end of the day by a glimpse of his beloved in her undergarments. He usually did not emerge from the hedge until after dusk, for fear of being spotted by Doris’ father or by any of the neighbours.

Dennis doubted, however, that he would ever return to Doris’ house again, simply because he had finally grown heedless enough, just a few nights ago, to accidentally permit himself to be seen—by Mortimer Harrison.

As he observed Doris and Mort laughing and kissing in the well-lit bedroom, Dennis had been so overwhelmed by frustration and jealousy that he had furiously gripped one of the bush’s narrow branches and snapped it in half to vent his anger. This outburst caused the entire hedge to shudder—at the same moment as Mort, on Doris’ bidding, moved over to the window to close the curtains.

Perceiving the rustling in the bushes, Mort had pressed his pretty face close to the glass, frowning and shielding his eyes with one hand to improve his vision.

For one reason or another, Doris conveniently disappeared into the bathroom at this stage. Mort’s mouth had opened almost to its fullest extent when he had spied Dennis Fairweather crouching among Doris’ hedges, binoculars in hand.

His surprised expression quickly transforming into one of excitement, Mort gave a flirtatious little wave, pressed an index finger to his lips in indication of secrecy, and then flattened himself against the window, tugging the base of his shirt upwards, and kissing the glass in such a manner as to make Fairweather immediately remove himself from his hiding place in disgust.

Hurrying forward to confront him, Dennis had hissed at Mort: We will not speak of this, Mortimer Harrison!

Mort removed himself from the glass, tugged open the window, and, making no effort to quieten his voice, replied: "Honey, if you want to take a front row seat, I’m going to provide you with popcorn, Coke, and a show you’ll never forget!" He gave an obvious, exaggerated wink.

Who are you talking to? Doris’ voice asked from the bathroom—whereupon Dennis fled into the gathering dusk, shoving his aunt’s binoculars into his bag; moving as fast as he could without actually breaking into a run.

*

As it transpired, Mort had clearly not spoken to Doris about Fairweather’s furtive activities; otherwise, Doris would surely never have talked to Dennis again, much less have told him such personal things.

I will not speak ill of him… Forgive me, Dennis now whispered humbly. But… I wish to know: do you plan to keep the child, or will it be terminated?

I want to keep it, Doris said adamantly. "And I want you to tell Mort about it. She looked at him earnestly. Not yet, of course. But soon. You can make him understand… because you– you take things very seriously, don’t you? You can convince him!"

I have no desire to do that, muttered Fairweather, appalled by Doris’ obvious desperation. Yet Doris seemed not to have heard him; she was staring, distracted, down the aisle, towards the librarian’s desk.

The previously quiet room was now filled with the sounds of approaching footsteps and rambunctious laughter. Seconds later, Mort himself pranced into view, wearing a pair of tight, vibrantly red pants and a white halter-top that was short enough to expose his pierced navel. He was accompanied by Gabriel Fairweather and a handsome, dark-haired youth, whom Dennis vaguely recognized as an American exchange student.

Even though Gabe was still attending Nis City High School, he often caught the bus to university at three-thirty, so that he could meet up with his brother. Gabe, being taller and better looking than Dennis, sometimes took the time to socialize with other young people, and already had a number of friends on the campus, including Doris and Mort.

Mort was a slender young man of twenty-one, with short, elegantly stylised white-blonde hair, a delicate, feminine face, and, as of only a few weeks ago, a large rose tattoo on his left upper-arm.

There’s my Doris darling! he exclaimed, trotting forward and seating himself, without invitation, on top of Dennis and Doris’ study table. He shoved Dennis’ mortuary science textbook aside to make way for himself, but then performed a swift doubletake, and pulled it back, staring down at the black and white photograph of the autopsied female corpse.

Deary me, dreary Dennis, said Mort, swinging his legs back and forth over the side of the table, this poor lady isn’t very photogenic—she’s looking a little stiff, isn’t she? He laughed loudly at his own wit, playfully slapping Dennis several times on the shoulder, as if expecting him to share his amusement.

What business have you here? Fairweather asked coldly, snatching his book out of Mort’s hand, and returning it to his bag, along with his notepad, pens, and pencils.

Just looking for my blushing baby, smiled Mort, fondly stroking Doris’ hair; something that obviously made her feel even more ill at ease. "I know how studious she is… and well, I must confess: I also had to grab a few dieting books— he swung his pink, undersized bag off his back, and placed it on his knees, —Mumsy says if there’s not at least five kilos less of me by next month, I’ll have no chance of strutting my stuff in one of her glamorous gowns at the wedding."

Although Mort looked perfectly cheerful as he said this, Dennis detected a note of antipathy in his voice.

You already look thin to me, Gabriel pointed out, moving closer to the desk, and glancing over his shoulder at the exchange student, who nodded in agreement, but maintained his distance.

Oh Gabey, Mort rolled his eyes, smirking affectionately at Dennis’ brother, "you’re so sweet, I just want to lick you like an ice cream. But Mumsy– well, needless to say, I can’t argue with her… Whenever she gets married, she becomes an inevitable beast, and I’ve always been her little flower girl. Now she’s telling me if I don’t make a million before I’m twenty-five, I’ll be uselessly over-the-hill as a model. And of course, she’s also dreadfully angry about my tattoo. I want to get one on my chest, but she won’t hear of it…" Allowing his voice to trail away, Mort dismissively waved a hand, clearly wanting to say nothing more on the subject of his mother.

From what Dennis knew of him, Mort was the only child of a seemingly non-existent man and a wealthy, entrepreneurial woman named Fifi Allure, who worked as a fashion designer and apparently exercised a large degree of control over her son’s career choices.

At length, Mort went on to announce that he was going to hold a party later in the week, and that everybody was invited, regardless of whether or not he actually knew them. I’m going to be doing the cooking! he said excitedly. You know, I think I’m really getting a knack for it. I can’t wait to have you all nibbling on my tasty treats!

Gabriel smiled. Mort then lowered himself onto Doris’ lap, and inappropriately displayed his affection by passionately kissing her, running his fingers through her auburn hair. Doris soon turned her head away from him, however, and muttered: S-sorry, Mort, but I’m not feeling very well at the moment…

Oh? said Mort, cupping Doris’ face between his hands, and frowning with concern. "That’s no good, honey. We can’t have you getting ill on us; Dennis and I are sick enough already!" He winked obviously in Fairweather’s direction.

Doris managed a diminutive smile, clearly not wishing to reveal the true nature of her ailment to anyone other than Dennis. To distract Mort, she hurriedly reached into her satchel, and produced a chunky white envelope.

Here, she said, handing it to him. This is for you and Fifi; it’s the photos I took last week. I’ve just developed them. I hope you like them…

Splendid! cried Mort, tearing open the envelope, and extracting the prints that Doris had enclosed.

Gabe and the exchange student both drew nearer to observe the photographs, as Mort flipped through them one by one. Each of them portrayed him modelling a different outfit —all presumably of his mother’s design— whilst standing in front of a black studio wall, which Dennis recognized as belonging to the building where Doris attended her photography classes.

Nice designs, remarked the exchange student, glancing down at Mort’s various sultry poses. Maybe I’ll buy something from your mother… if you have anything in my size.

Returning the pictures to the envelope, and retrieving a packet of cigarettes from his bag, Mort warmly returned: Oh, wouldn’t that be divine! You’re more than welcome to come over any time, and to try on anything you please. And Dennis, Smirking anew, he turned to Fairweather, slipping a cigarette in between his thin lips, and dropping the photographs into his bag, "I’d love for you to tag along. If you don’t want to try anything on yourself, you can just watch." Mort winked, and lit his cigarette with a green lighter.

Fairweather coldly returned his gaze, feeling very aware of the thumping of his own heart, and of the fact that Gabe —who knew him far better than anyone else did— was now looking at him with an unwavering, suspicious gaze.

Excuse me, a stern voice suddenly interrupted, causing both Doris and Dennis to flinch in their seats. Glancing around, the five students all beheld Mrs Prince, the bespectacled, spindly librarian, glaring at them from the far end of the aisle, her hands resting upon her narrow hips.

Would you mind keeping it down? she asked crossly. "People are trying to study, and they can hear you even on the other side of the room! And, Harrison, please put that out, she added, indicating with a crooked, bony finger towards Mort’s smouldering cigarette. Those things can kill you, you know. I simply won’t tolerate cigarettes in my library. If anything, the books might catch alight, and in no time I’d have a blazing inferno to contend with!"

Oh, we were just about to be on our way, Mort said unconcernedly, sliding from Doris’ lap, and hitching his bag onto his shoulder. "Come along, Doris. You can help me study my French. And if we have time, we might be able to practice the language afterwards!"

Doris got to her feet and obligingly followed Mort, sparing a single melancholy glance at Dennis over her shoulder as she walked away.

Mrs Prince made a disapproving tutting sound, chivvying the troublemakers down the aisle and out of her domain.

As soon as Doris, Mort and Mrs Prince were out of sight, Dennis rose from his seat, shouldered his heavy bag, and joined Gabriel between the bookshelves, privately wondering whether he ought to tell him about Doris’ predicament.

Leaning closer, so that the handsome American student could not overhear, Gabe whispered into his brother’s ear: You’re jealous of Mort. I can tell. How did he find out about you?

I do not deserve Doris’ love, Dennis replied automatically, as he and Gabe began to walk, side by side, down the aisle towards the front of the library, the exchange student following at a safe distance, with his hands hidden in the side pockets of his jumper. "But it grieves my heart to see her forfeit her love upon someone so unworthy. You would do better not to… encourage him, brother."

With a slight smirk, Gabriel answered: It’s not my fault Doris is so stupid she can’t even see what’s right in front of her. Everybody else can.

At present, Doris is concerned only with the torments of her own beautiful soul, murmured Dennis, coolly. Do not speak of her so, Gabe– I will not hear it.

But Gabriel did not listen to Dennis. Instead, he halted in his tracks, and glanced over his shoulder at his friend, beckoning him to come closer.

I’m sorry, Noah, I almost forgot to introduce you to my brother, Dennis. Dennis, Noah, Noah, Dennis, Gabriel nonchalantly motioned back and forth, from one young man to the other. Noah’s coming over for afternoon tea. Aunt Beatrice already said it was alright.

Yes, I’ll have to thank her in person, smiled Noah, inclining his head politely in Dennis’ direction.

In silence, the three boys made their way to the fore of the building, passing Mrs Prince, who shot them a dubious glance from behind the librarian’s desk.

Outside, the neat campus was bathed in the clear light of a mild spring afternoon. But scarcely had Dennis, Gabe and Noah emerged from the library, when a young woman unexpectedly bumped into Dennis, sending a stack of books toppling from her arms onto the pavement.

Oh no! she exclaimed in surprise and dismay, squatting down in pursuit of her fallen possessions. "God, I’m going to be so late for class!"

Dressed in a yellow mini-skirt and a green cardigan, she was a pretty, blonde-haired girl, whose name Dennis already knew to be Mary, as he had heard Doris speak about her, and had seen the pair of them socializing with Mort on several occasions.

Dennis knelt down and collected one of Mary’s books, whilst Gabriel and Noah simply looked on in silence, standing to the left of the double wooden library doors.

Should’ve looked where I was going… Mary muttered to herself, preoccupied with gathering her things; and thus failing to notice that Dennis was now doing his utmost to peer up her skirt. I’m a bit of a klutz…

With his head lowered and tilted to one side, Dennis leered for several seconds at Mary’s frilly white underwear, before she finally glanced upwards, and —realising what he was doing— let out a shriek of disgust.

You creep! she cried, scrambling to her feet, and tugging down the hem of her skirt as best she could with only one hand free. I’ll– I’ll tell a professor about this!

You are beautiful, Dennis replied quietly, rising to his feet, and calmly holding the book out towards Mary, smiling in a manner that she evidently found to be very unsettling. She snatched the book from him at once, revolted.

You’ll have to excuse my brother, Gabriel intervened calmly. He’s not very prudent when it comes to—

"I’ve heard all about your brother and you! interrupted Mary, clutching her books to her chest. He’s obsessed with death and cemeteries; he dug up your mum’s corpse when he was a kid! And now you both go to that mental institution… She glanced abruptly towards Noah, who was looking quite surprised to hear such a disconcerting slew of information about his two new acquaintances. You don’t want anything to do with that goth creep!" shouted Mary, jerking her head sharply in Dennis’ direction, before turning and flouncing away, blonde hair swishing back and forth against her back.

Dennis rounded upon Gabe. How did she come to know of such events? he demanded, glaring at him.

News travels. Maybe Cecile Goodwill spoke about you, Gabe replied coolly, referring to a young woman whom he and Dennis knew from their group sessions at the Nis City Psychiatric Institution.

She is my friend. Never would she betray— Dennis angrily began, but Gabriel impatiently overrode him, snapping: "I don’t like your insinuations, Dennis. I would never tell anybody what a freak you are! Sometimes I hate being your brother. People automatically assume I’m just like you. Glancing over his shoulder, he added to his friend: Come on, Noah."

Without another word, Gabe and Noah abandoned Dennis in front of the library, Noah leaning close to Gabe as they walked away; whispering something into his ear that he obviously did not want the elder Fairweather to overhear.

*

Not enthused by the notion of spending the afternoon with Aunt Beatrice, Noah, and the petulant Gabriel, Dennis opted to go for a walk before returning home. Inevitably, his steps led him to the house of Ernest and Doris Ellis, even though he had vowed never to return.

After making sure that he was not being watched by any of Doris’ neighbours, Dennis got down on his hands and knees, and crawled through the gap that he had forged in the hedge. Once disguised there, he waited for about forty-five minutes, gazing longingly at the window of Doris’ empty bedroom—just a few metres from where he sat concealed.

I cannot ask him to stay with you, my love, Dennis whispered. I want him to leave you… pray, let me raise the child as my own. Now that I have beheld the face of a goddess, the flowers of yore appear as weeds to me now. My soul is riven by your perfection and the horrors of this world, a world so unworthy of you. Though I am as yet a youth, I feel that I have endured a thousand winters. I have not the goodness to honour your request, Doris… I have grown too selfish for that.

Dennis waited a few minutes longer, but, when still there was no sign of Doris, he decided to make his way home before Doris’ father returned from work.

Dennis removed himself from the hedge, shouldered his bag, and walked slowly down to the end of the street, lost in his own thoughts. He travelled a further two blocks along the footpath, and then turned right onto the cul-de-sac where he and Gabriel resided with Aunt Beatrice, in a small, homely cottage.

When Fairweather arrived in Beatrice Baxter’s slightly overgrown front yard, he heaved a deep sigh and swung his bag off his shoulder, preparing himself for the inevitable greeting of ‘welcome home, Dennis!’ that would ensue from his aunt.

However, when Dennis Fairweather ascended the porch steps and opened the front door, all rational thought abandoned him. His bag fell from his hand, his mortuary science textbook and several of his pens spilling out onto the floor. But Dennis did not even notice.

His eyes roved around the room, seeing, but not comprehending, the splatters of blood across his aunt’s white curtains; the two motionless bodies lying spread-eagled on the floor, their heads bearing severe, hideous wounds; and the dark-haired youth who stood over them, covered in splashes of scarlet, breathing hard and gripping a handgun, his olive-green eyes focused directly upon Dennis.

Close the door! the killer snarled, jerking Dennis out of his stupor.

Dennis was too terrified to disobey; fumbling, he pushed the door shut behind him, and then slid hopelessly down onto the floor, his quaking legs no longer able to support the weight of his body.

B-Beatrice, my aunt! G-Gabriel! Fairweather gasped hoarsely, looking from the woman’s corpse, to the boy’s; knowing, even at a glance, that there would be no hope of reviving them. "N-no! No– I cannot be seeing it! Let it be a dream! Let it be a dream!!!"

In horror, he turned his attention toward the young killer, whom he — and indeed the whole world— would one day know as Virgil Hallows; and, in a tremulous voice of almost childlike awe, whispered: "…You… who are you? …You are truly an abomination…"

The killer merely smiled. If any innocence had still existed inside Dennis Fairweather on that October day, it instantly died at the sight of that smile.

Chapter One

A Yuletide Reunion

Twenty-Three Years Later

A cascade of snowflakes drifted down from above, the last vestiges of a storm that had coated the whole of Yonlef City in a blanket of perfect white. Bright, multi-coloured Christmas lights twinkled from the frontages of many of the homes that Detective Leonard Warren passed in his Y.C.P.D. cruiser, yet Warren paid little attention to any expressions of festive cheer. He was driving above the speed limit, en route to a crime scene that he hoped to reach before the daylight faded entirely. As much as Warren had wanted to spend Christmas eve with his twelve-year-old daughter, Yvonne, he simply could not pass up the opportunity to acquire a fresh lead on the iniquitous man who had, four short months ago, mercilessly slaughtered Geraldine: Leonard’s wife and Yvonne’s mother—not to mention at least fifteen other victims, over the course of several years.

Warren had just been preparing to leave the headquarters of the Y.C.P.D. for home, where he would gladly relieve the baby-sitter of Yvonne (whom he would not allow to be on her own at any time, since Geraldine’s death), and treat the girl to an evening out; when he had received a call to inform him that a decomposing body had just been discovered on the outskirts of the city. The police had been given reason to suspect that the party responsible was none other than Warren’s nemesis, Virgil Hallows, the Hi-Power Killer. Had there been no mention of that abhorred name, Warren was sure he would simply have delegated the task to a subordinate officer and continued home regardless, but the mere whisper of Hallows prompted him onwards, with wrath in his heart.

He had telephoned his daughter before leaving, to inform her that he would most likely not be home until late. He had neglected to mention the exact nature of the scene to which he had been summoned. Yvonne had been obviously hurt. She came over quite reticent, and refused to grant Warren anything more cordial than a brief ‘‘‘K, bye’ when they parted.

The blue-green veins stood out upon the backs of Warren’s hairy hands as he gripped the steering wheel harder than necessary, his breath issuing from him like a cloud of steam in the unheated car. As he passed out of the city, the houses thinned on either side, until Warren was driving past snow-strewn fields and the occasional rural homestead.

After a further half-an-hour of travel, which saw little development in the landscape, Detective Warren reached the address of one Theodore Harker: a sixty-two-year-old farmer who resided alone, with just his cat, cattle, chickens and cornfields for company. He lived in a sizable, two-story abode, adjacent on one side to his fields, and, on the other, to a stretch of forest, where his corpse, already well decomposed, had been discovered earlier that day by two boys who had ventured into the woods to build a snow-fort.

Several police cruisers were already parked in the yard. As Warren drew nearer, he could see that one of his Y.C.P.D. brethren had taken the liberty of placing a banner of yellow and black crime-scene tape across the front of the house, winding it around the wooden columns on the porch.

Warren parked behind one of the police cars, and alighted from his own cruiser, his boots sinking several inches into the white, fluffy snow. He trudged towards the homestead with his hands jammed into the pockets of his short, fleece-lined jacket, the bitter wind whistling over his stubbly, balding head and exposed ears, leaving him feeling chilled to the core.

Lifting his head, he spied two of his officers standing on the porch behind the banner of crime-scene tape: Officer Harry Parker, and Officer Kevin Dashwood. The latter, a thirty-one-year-old, tall, sandy-haired Southerner, was one of the few people whom Warren actually considered a friend.

Kev! Warren called out, raising a hand to attract Dashwood’s attention. Sorry I’m late. Got any news?

Howdy, Sir; was hoping yeh’d be stoppin’ bah, said Dashwood, ducking under the police tape, descending the porch steps, and meeting Warren on the snow-covered lawn. Been some weather, eh? Woo-wee! He stamped his feet, and rubbed his raw hands together in an effort to warm them. I been sayin’ to Ty, I think I’ll be havin’ my first proper white Christmas this year, ‘cause I ain’t gettin’ home with all this goin’ on.

Sure looks that way, sighed Warren, who was in no mood to talk about the weather. So. Where is he? You wanna let me see him before the light gives out on us?

Sure thang, replied Dashwood, nodding. The two of them began to walk towards the woods on the right side of the house, moving with long, high strides through the snow. But I gotta warn yeh, Dashwood went on, lowering his voice seriously, it ain’t a pretty sight, that’s for sure, Sir. He shook his head sadly, Poor guy. This kinda thang just makes me feel sick inside.

Seen it all before, Kev, murmured Warren. Crime scene hasn’t been disturbed? What makes you think it’s him? Warren did not need to specify to whom he was referring.

Aww, sighed Dashwood, "can’t rightly be a hundred-per-cent sure, but I think it’s fishy that this fella got himself pumped full of bullets from a Browning Hi-Power. But that ain’t all, Sir. I reckon Hallows an’ Gretel have been squattin’ here for a while; got ‘emselves a mighty nice set-up after pushin’ ole Ted outta the picture, I reckon.

Me an’ Parker found a number o’ thangs that look suspicious in that house—

Like what? interjected Warren, pushing a snow-strewn branch out of the way as he and Dashwood reached the outskirts of the wood, and passed underneath the canopy of sparkling white trees.

Got an empty bottle o’ hair dye, Hallows’ favourite colour, orange as a carrot, drawled Dashwood. Seems a fine coincidence, seein’ as how Ted’s let himself go grey a ways back. Bunch of hairs in the bathroom sank; ain’t just his, neither; some of ‘em look an awful lot like they came from our old friend Gretel, Sir. Them two might’ve been squattin’ here ever since we chased ‘em outta their old hideout. Gonna get them hairs analysed; find out for sure… Then there’s Mr Harker’s gun collection; looks like he was into a bit of huntin’, Sir; except Hallows gone an’ took what he liked for his-self, I’ll wager. Ain’t much left there now.

Warren listened to all of this in a state of quiet contemplation; trying to gauge, with as much objectivity as possible, how much this evidence really might point to Hallows, as apposed to, say, a domestic disruption or an accident resulting in Ted Harker’s untimely death. After four months of utter silence from the serial killer and his devoted companion (a formerly homeless, drug-addicted prostitute by the name of Gretel LeBane), Warren had been starting to fear that Hallows would manage to sink back into obscurity, never to re-surface again. But of course, Hallows could not resist the promise of further infamy, the intoxication of committing another murder.

Even months after Geraldine’s death, Warren had seen no improvement in the unwelcome thoughts that kept tormenting him. Many a night he awoke in cold sweats, sitting upright in the bed that he ought to have been sharing with his wife, as parades of horrifying images flashed before his mind’s eye.

Geraldine had been to Hallows a long-coveted prize; the ultimate way to destroy Warren, who was the one primarily responsible for placing Hallows in prison for nine-and-a-half years, prior to the onset of the string of murders for which he had since become notorious. Hallows would have taken immense delight in hurting Geraldine; her death had certainly not been a quick one, and it was only by a miracle —which Warren had yet to fully comprehend— that Yvonne had not met the same hideous fate.

After ten minutes of walking, Warren and Dashwood arrived at the scene of the crime. Warren’s toes had grown numb inside his shoes. Several of the officers had erected more police tape between the trees, giving the corpse a wide berth on every side. Warren was pleased to see that Dr Robert Watson, the medical examiner who habitually worked with the Y.C.P.D., was already granting poor Ted the benefit of his perspicacious inspections.

Outside the tape barrier stood Officer Ty Simmons, a small yet muscular young black woman with a very short haircut.

Sir, she said, grinning with relief at the sight of Detective Warren; tipping her officer’s hat towards him, we got some shit right here, man. I’ve been feeling it were him, Hallows. Him an’ Gretel. We got something to go on now. Before he know it, we’re gonna be right back on his ass! Simmons seemed extremely pleased about this, but Warren could summon no such enthusiasm while the body of an innocent human being was lying so nearby.

Alright Ty, he said patiently, granting her a weary smile, "but let’s not count our chickens before they hatch… let’s just see what we got to work with first. Merry Christmas," he added sarcastically, looking down at the corpse.

The stench of death was truly terrible. The corpse itself, when Warren ducked under the tape to get a better look at it, turned out to be so decomposed that the bones protruded from beneath its ragged flesh, while insects crawled and buzzed over its exterior. Dashwood fell back and stood beside Simmons, still uselessly rubbing his chilled, pink hands.

Ted Harker was clad in a chequered brown-and-white t-shirt beneath denim overalls, which were punctured in many places by bullet-holes.

What’ve we got here, Doc? Warren asked of Dr Watson, who was wearing a white mask to cover his nose and mouth, as he bent over Ted, examining every hole in the front of his outfit.

Well, we have managed to recover a number of bullets already, Detective, he wearily returned, without glancing up from his employment. And, as Officer Dashwood has no doubt informed you, they are from a Browning Hi-Power… Although— suddenly looking thoughtful, Dr Watson sat back on his haunches, and tugged down his mask to reveal his wispy moustache and goatee, "—it seems that this M.O. is not quite consistent with Virgil Hallows, who, from our experience, tends to favour a single, clean shot to finally kill his victims, after injuring them with kicking and so forth. Now, while there is evidence of a physical struggle—"

Hold up, interjected Ty Simmons, moving as close as she dared to the corpse, yet still remaining beyond the edge of the barrier tape. "You sayin’ it weren’t Hallows? Who else could it be?"

Dr Watson patiently returned: "No, no, Officer Simmons, you’ve not let me finish. I was about to propound the theory that Hallows might have been using this body as, well —to use a rather crude term— target practise, after the initial murder. I think he has spent a lot of time here… around these woods." He glanced about, as if hoping that the trees might whisper some secrets about what they had seen.

Wouldn’t surprise me, grunted Warren, staring darkly down at poor Ted Harker: another casualty of Hallows’ existence. Been laughing his ass off at us this entire time, of course. I’d be interested to know how he and Gretel got out of here so quick. They could’ve left ages ago… which means they could be halfway to China by now. But if they’ve been here lately, how’d they know we’d be gettin’ here, huh? Seems almost like someone tipped ‘em off, he added darkly.

There was an uncomfortable pause at this point, during which Warren —and, he supposed, everybody else— was thinking poignantly about their late comrade Eddie Gruber, who had betrayed them all to Virgil Hallows, and had eventually met a fitting end by the killer’s cruel hand. But Warren felt no sympathy; had it not been for Eddie, Hallows never would have amassed enough information to come after Geraldine.

Warren did not doubt that Hallows would also get rid of Gretel, when he eventually tired of her. Warren could only suppose that Gretel was still alive today simply because she flattered Hallows’ irrepressible pride.

This place would be perfect for them, Warren remarked, taking a few paces away from the corpse, and instead beginning to examine one of the trees around which Simmons had wound the crime scene tape. No one’d think twice ‘bout hearin’ a gunshot out here…

"I reckon there ain’t no one to hear it, Sir, put in Officer Dashwood. Last house I saw was a ways down the road, weren’t it Ty?"

Yeah, man, affirmed Simmons, stamping her feet against the flattened snow in an effort to keep warm. And then this god-damned snow come down an’ ruin any footprints we might’ve lifted. I know anythin’ about Virgil the Virgin, it’s that he ain’t gettin’ rid of them badass boots of his.

Yes… I daresay footprints would have been helpful, murmured Dr Watson, considering how familiar we’ve become with the tread of Hallows’ preferred shoe. Still, it’s all circumstantial. He sighed wearily, closing his eyes for a moment behind the lenses of his spectacles, before announcing drearily: It’s getting terribly dark. I’ll have to get him to the morgue.

Detective Warren did not reply to this; he had become preoccupied with inspecting a small hole in the trunk of the tree, located about six feet upward from the base; clearly the result of a gunshot.

Oh, yes, you’ve noticed that, said Robert, granting Warren a weary smile, as he rose from his crouching position, and tugged his latex gloves from his hands. "Yes, I think he’s been practicing his shooting, although this hole— he nodded towards the tree —was produced by a different kind of bullet. Something from a rifle, I think. Also, judging by the downward trajectory, I would say that the gun had to have been fired from a high position. Hallows is five-foot-ten; he couldn’t have made a bullet-hole at that angle unless he was standing on something… In fact, I think he fired from—up there." He turned and pointed towards a tall, naked tree, at least thirty metres distant. Warren, Dashwood and Simmons all followed his gaze, Dashwood letting out a low whistle. It was difficult to imagine that even Hallows could have managed to scale such a tree: the branches were narrow and widely spaced, the bottommost ones being a good nine feet off the ground.

"Damn, muttered Officer Simmons. How far up he gotta be to do that?"

Difficult to be sure, sighed Dr Watson. But I’d say he would at least have to be on that fifth set of branches up there, maybe higher. If there was some way of getting up there, we might be able to—

Doc? interjected Detective Warren, whose attention had since returned to the tree with the bullet in its trunk. ‘I think I got somethin’ here… Jesus, he added in irritation, I can’t see nothin’; I need a light!

Dr Watson, Dashwood and Simmons hurried over to observe what had captivated Warren. Simmons reached into the pocket of her blue uniform pants, and extracted her mobile telephone, offering it to Warren in the hope that its illuminated screen may be of assistance in the dying light.

Thanks Ty, Warren said appreciatively. Holding the phone close to the hole, he descried more clearly the development that he had just glimpsed before: embedded deep into the trunk, where the bullet had made its mark, were several long black hairs.

Oh dear, murmured Dr Watson, his eyes widening in surprise as he leant closer for a better look. "How did I overlook those?"

That’s why it helps to have a couple of people workin’ the case, Doc, muttered Detective Warren. One person ain’t got no hope of findin’ it all. Now, c’mon, let’s get some of these bagged, guys; don’t just stand there gawking.

As Dr Watson went in pursuit of his medical examiner’s bag, which was lying within a few feet of the corpse, Warren touched a button on Simmons’ mobile to reactive the light, and then pointed with his stubby index-finger towards the hairs, being mindful not to allow his skin to come into contact with the tree. What d’you reckon, guys? You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?

I reckon them hairs belong to Gretel LeBane, Sir!, said Dashwood, while Simmons simultaneously cried: I don’t need no more proof than this, Sir; it that skank Gretel!

Yep, I think it was Gretel too, Warren said with a humourless smile. And, I’m also willing to bet… Moving around to the side of the tree, Warren navigated the light from Simmons’ phone over the trunk, and presently found what he was seeking: an abrasion in the bark —lower than the coil of crime scene tape— where a rope had repeatedly rubbed against it. …Bingo.

Simmons and Dashwood both squinted down at the indentation, uncertain of the significance in what they were seeing. Warren smiled grimly.

Gettin’ a bit predicable, Virge, he muttered, as Dr Watson returned with a plastic evidence bag, and a pair of tweezers with which to extract Gretel’s hair from the tree. Looks like Ted ain’t the only one you’ve been usin’ for target practise… muttered Warren.

Hang on a sec, frowned Dashwood, his teeth chattering, "Yeh- yeh sayin’, Sir, that Hallows was tryin’ to kill Gretel LeBane?"

Look like he missed her! Simmons interjected with a slightly hysterical laugh. He hit her, man, and we’d be seein’ some of the red stuff on this tree.

Hallows don’t miss, Warren said gravely, holding the mobile once again near the bullet-hole, so as to aid Dr Watson in extracting the hairs: a task that required delicacy and precision. He tied Gretel up, and took a shot at her from way over in that tree, with one of Ted Harker’s rifles—but he wasn’t trying to kill her. Hit close enough to take out a few of her hairs, though; couldn’t have made a better shot. This is like foreplay for them, he added grimly.

For that sicko, maybe, but I don’t think no girl like they ass gettin’ shot at! Simmons cried angrily.

I dunno, Ty, sighed Warren, "for every Hallows out there, there’s also a Gretel. You ask me, I reckon she enjoys it as much as him; more, I’ll bet. For him, having a willing partner takes all the fun out of it. If he’d really been enjoying himself, you can bet her body would be lying here right now, and our job would be a little easier."

Simmons shook her head, puffed out her cheeks, and simply muttered: That’s some messed-up shit, man.

If you’re correct about this, Detective Warren, sighed Dr Watson, gently placing one of Gretel LeBane’s hairs into the plastic evidence bag, —and we’ll have to assume you are— it means that Hallows and LeBane can’t be very far away...

Yup, affirmed Dashwood, nodding. He drew a shaking breath through clenched teeth. The house looks like someone’s been livin’ in it recent, and I’m willing to wager it weren’t this poor fella. He nodded down at what was left of Ted Harker. Now, heck, I dunno who done it, but someone’s been in there regular, feeding the kitty.

Shortly thereafter, the small congregation disbanded from the wood, so that they could attend to other duties. The media had arrived, and Dashwood consented to give an interview, standing ankle-deep in the snow in front of Ted’s home, and revealing only what was strictly necessary.

For the others, the process of cleaning up the crime scene, helping with the transportation of Ted’s remains, and inspecting the house for evidence took up the rest of the evening, and detained Detective Warren until ten past one.

Even at that late hour, he encountered quite a bit of traffic on the city streets as he made his way home; it seemed that every night owl was out and about, admiring the Christmas decorations.

When Warren finally returned to his house, he apologised many times to the weary baby-sitter, gave her a large tip, and then sent her on her way. He stood in his front garden, and kept his brown eyes trained on her car until it turned onto an intersecting road, and passed out of sight. It was Christmas eve, the streets crowded and well-lit; but all the same, Warren had witnessed too many crime scenes not to feel uneasy at the thought of a young woman travelling alone at night.

With a sigh, Warren retired to his house. He knocked his boots against the porch steps, discharging as much snow as possible, before going inside. He locked the door and reset the alarm behind him.

Yvonne was already in bed, either asleep or pretending to be, when Warren poked his head through the door of her room to check on her. He paced into the room as quietly as he was able, to make sure that the windows were still securely locked. Once satisfied that they were, he tiptoed back out into the hall, though he left Yvonne’s door ajar behind him, so that he would be able to hear any sounds of distress.

These days, Warren frequently awoke in the night, mistaking the creak of a floorboard for the tread of an intruder, or the occasional shouts of festivity from next door, as cries of fear. He checked on his daughter several times nightly, terrified that Hallows might somehow defy every defensive precaution in the house, and kidnap her from right under his nose. As far as Warren knew, no victim had ever escaped from Hallows when he decided to kill them; not, that is, until he, Warren, had somehow managed to rescue Yvonne from the villain’s clutches.

It would still be quite a while before Warren could retire to bed himself; there were several presents waiting to be wrapped for Christmas morning; but, before attending to that, Warren had to make an important call.

He sat for several minutes upon the sofa in his living room, feeling more lonesome than he had ever felt before. He stared dully across at Geraldine’s antique wall-clock, as he tried to mentally calculate what time it was in Nis City, Australia. If his previous experiences were anything to judge by, he knew that it was safe for him to call, even when, in Yonlef, it was already late in the evening.

Warren stood from the couch, and paced into the corridor. The telephone stood upon a small table by the wall. Lifting the receiver, he dialled the now familiar number of Dana Smiths, the Australian woman without whom he never would have been able to save his daughter’s life, on the day Geraldine had been murdered.

Chapter Two

Second Greetings

Dana Smiths was sitting at the dining table in her flat —number 13, on the second storey of Springview Apartments— re-writing an inventory of guest names for her upcoming wedding, when the telephone rang. It had been ringing on and off for most of the morning, friends and relatives congratulating Dana on her engagement, or wishing her a last-minute Merry Christmas.

Dana had had a nice Christmas so far, spending the day in the company of her fiancée Tobias. The sounds of merrymaking from number 14, the apartment directly opposite their own, had begun early in the day and showed no signs of letting up. Even Tobias, who normally disfavoured his neighbours’ antics, had managed to remain in a good mood throughout the day; he was pleased to be on holidays, and was feeling more tolerant than usual.

Now, at seven-thirty, Dana and Tobias were preparing to join the party next door. Mortimer Harrison, the irrepressible occupant of apartment 14, had already secured Dana’s promise that she would attend. Setting aside her pen, Dana lifted the phone, and answered upon the third ring with a good-humoured: Hello?

There was a crackle of static from across the line. Dana recognised the voice that next spoke, and, though she liked the man to whom it belonged, he had never been the bringer of good news.

Miss Smiths? he said gruffly. It’s Detective Leonard Warren. You got a minute?

Oh, yes– of course, Detective Warren, blustered Dana, straightening herself in her chair.

Well– he’s killed again, Warren said without pretence.

Even though this was the sort of thing Dana had been anticipating, the shock was no less potent. She instantly felt every pleasant feeling wither inside her, like a balloon that had just suffered a puncture.

Merry Christmas, Warren added sarcastically.

…I had no idea, Dana whispered, rubbing her forehead with her free hand. Who was it? When did it happen?

Happened quite a while ago, s’matter of fact, explained Dana’s American friend. A farmer; guy called Ted Harker. Must’ve been dead several months, but we only found the body this evening. Still Christmas eve over here… well— he cleared his throat, —not anymore; hit midnight a while ago…

Oh… Dana said uncertainly, hardly knowing what to say. In light of all the festive activity, she had not spared Warren a thought for days, and his call had come as a rude bolt from the blue.

You probably got plans, so I’ll cut right to the chase, Miss Smiths, Warren went on. If you can give me any information on where you think Hallows and Gretel have got to —even if it’s just a hunch— I’d really ‘ppreciate it. Course, nothing we get from you is admissible in court… but the only important thing right now is for us to catch the asshole. I know it’s a long shot… but you somehow knew everything that was goin’ on with Eddie… and you saved my little girl.

Detective, sighed Dana, shaking her head sadly, I really wish I could help you… but after Doris Ellis died, the psychic connection was broken… I haven’t dreamed about Hallows for… for months now.

Yeah? Four months sound about right? asked Warren, with an air of impending depression.

Yes… about that long, Dana said quietly. I’m sorry. Doris was the one with the powers. I was just sort of acting like… a lightning rod, or something. She said I was very receptive to the psychic forces. Dana paused uncomfortably. Even though the psychic connection that Doris Ellis had forged between them had been in its own way useful, Dana had hardly been mourning in its absence. It had been broken when Doris had finally been killed, and her twenty-two-year-old son Conner re-incarcerated at the Nis City Psychiatric Institution, where he was now living under the watchful eye and patient councils of his psychiatrist, Dr Hugo Coemen.

I wish there was something I could do, Dana added dismally. But… I have no idea where Virgil Hallows is… He could be anywhere.

Detective Warren heaved a weary sigh. "I had a feelin’ he might be heading out to see his old pal Doris Ellis, but he ain’t stupid, Hallows. I guess this murder proves he’s still around my neck of the woods. Maybe he already knows Doris kicked the bucket, but he’s not dumb enough to try’n find out why. Not yet anyway. Guess we’ll have to stick to good, old-fashioned sleuthing. Sorry to trouble you, Miss Smiths. Merry Christmas, anyway."

Warren was on the verge of ending the call, but Dana quickly spoke up. She did not want, especially on Christmas, to part on such a despondent note, leaving both of them feeling worse than they had felt before.

Thank you, Detective. And merry Christmas to you too. And Yvonne. How is she, by the way?

Aww, well as can be expected, y’know, sighed Leonard. Was supposed to take her out for dinner t’night, but… then this thing came up… didn’t even get to see her before she went to bed. He sighed again.

I’m sure you’ll be able to make it up to her tomorrow, Dana said kindly.

"Yeah. She’ll forgive me, so long as I’m willing to shift a bit