The Wedjat

By Chuck Hughes

A brutal murder in Savannah, two more in Charleston, another three in

Charlotte, all have two things in common, body organs missing and a mystic

symbol over the victim’s neatly sutured wounds.



Charlotte’s Chief of Police and psychiatric consultant Davis Morton, lure

forensic psychologist Nick Riley from his lecture circuit to assist in finding the

killer. Assisted by homicide detectives Caleb Barlow and Ed Robinson, Nick

bounces between Savannah, Charleston and Charlotte seeking and following

clues.



Smelling a major scoop, newswoman Lane McBride bull noses her way into

the investigation. The stronger the scent, the more reckless she becomes in her

search for a story. What she finds is more than she bargained for.



Haunted by his failure to find the killer when the first victim surfaced in

Savannah, Nick now has five more failures to torment him. It becomes even

more personal when the wife of his best friend becomes a victim. Her

death, along with the unwelcomed involvement of Lane and SBI agent Mike

Reynolds, only make Nick’s job more difficult.



The cryptic, labyrinthine mind is a fanciful playground filled with breath taking

imagery and rides for which few dare buy a ticket.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 5, 2009
• ISBN: 9781440163821

Chuck Hughes

In 2006, Chuck Hughes and two friends opened their first restaurant, Garde Manger, in old Montreal. They haven’t looked back. A fanatical clientele made up of locals and tourists keeps the place hopping; everyone is in search of Chuck’s magical take on comfort food classics. Chuck defeated Iron Chef Bobby Flay in the battle of Canadian lobster and starred in The Next Iron Chef: Super Chefs. His show Chuck’s Day Off airs in over eighty countries including the U.S. (Cooking Channel) and Canada (Food Network), as does his follow-up series, Chuck’s Week Off. Recently he completed the first season of his primetime show, Chuck’s Eat the Street, for Cooking Channel, and he is currently discussing another series for Food Network Canada for 2013.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

July 1977

F rom the safety of the dusty attic, thirteen-year-old Franky Dempsky wiped the dust from the small oval window. A hundred yards away, the lake shimmered as the brisk wind rolled over it. Beyond the lake, he could see the new stone church with its tall steeple. Although he could not see the open grave, he knew the parade of cars filling the parking area meant only one thing, a funeral. As he surveyed the church, his dog whined.

Just wait, boy. I’ll take you out when I know he’s in the basement.

Grumbling, the shepherd left the window and curled up at the boy’s feet. The dog and the boy had been together most of their twelve years. They were best friends, Sparks and the boy. In fact, the dog was the boy’s only friend. While other kids played baseball and rang the doorbells of grumpy old men and irate old women then ran, he hid in the attic away from the man and the acrid smell drifting up from the basement with only the dog for company. A week of hammering rain attacking the tin roof only added to his isolation.

He could tolerate the yoke of bondage only when he was with his mother. What crimes justified such retribution? Sparkling blue eyes, a smile that lit the darkest room, and a certainty in her step were hers; his was being born.

Once vibrant, captivity had infected both boy and woman with perpetual gloom turning them into vague shadows shifting from this place to that place, ignored by the man and unnoticed by others.

The occasional need to do some womanly chore in town, or find a remedy for some malady, imagined or real, brought glimpses of what the woman was before being consumed by the man and the house. These rarities brought a glow to her eyes, the return of pride to her step, and hints of a long-misplaced smile. Eventually, they had to return to the many gabled, three-story, wooden skeleton that masqueraded as a house. Once back behind the thick oak doors, they blended with the darkness.

For the past two days, the boy and his dog passed their time huddled in the attic listening to his mother’s hysterical cries from downstairs. Giles, don’t take me down there! For heaven’s sake, Giles, don’t make me help you! Please, Giles, Please!

The cries and pleas drew Franky from the attic into the shade-drawn darkness of his mother’s room. He sponged her brow with a wet rag, ran a boar-bristle brush through her sweat-matted hair, and whispered, It’s okay, Momma. I’m here.

In moments of lucidness, she fought through the pain and returned his whisper. "I know, Franky, I know, and it’s going to be okay. I’ll be better soon.

The screams and the ranting forcing their way into the dusty attic said otherwise.

*     *     *

With a tepid smile, Franky scratched the muscular shepherd’s head. Sparks, I’m going to check on Mom, he whispered. She’s been quiet for two days now. The dog responded with a series of warm laps to his face and a whine. Okay, boy, you can go out to do your business after I’m sure he’s busy in the basement.

The boy edged out of the attic and down the stairs with Sparks anxiously behind him. The house was quiet. No screams, no humming pumps. Only the smells from the basement lurked. He quietly opened the back door for the dog then made his way to his mother’s room. He turned the tarnished brass doorknob. However, the door was stubborn and scrapped across the warped wooden floor. The hinges were just as willful, responding with a drawn-out squeak.

Franky struggled to control the heavy breaths of anticipation. Still, the air gushed from his lungs, sounding just like Josh William’s hog when they slit it from breast to belly.

He began counting. That was the rule - if you counted to ten and nothing happened, everything would be okay.

He began counting: One Mississippi . . . two Mississippi . . . three Mississippi . . . When he reached three, he let the air slowly leave his lungs. The man had not heard him. He pushed the door open and stepped into the musty room with renewed bravery. It was empty.

Leaving the empty room, he crept downstairs, hoping to find her pulling soaked sheets from the washing machine, winding them through the wringer to hang on the line for the sun and wind to make fresh again.

Please! Let her be there!

He stopped at the bottom of the steps and listened for the familiar slush-chug, slush-chug from the kitchen. However, the machine stood silently with dirty clothes in the corner. Dishes with the crusted remains of some last meal clinging to them cluttered the sink while half-smoked cigarette butts filled the ashtrays.

The chill ran up his back again. His mother hated the stale odor of tobacco ash as much as she did the smoke from a burning one.

She would have emptied them.

He looked out the smudged window at the clothesline: She wasn’t there either. Muttering noise from the basement guided him to the open basement door. Trying to rid the pungent smell drifting up the stairs, he covered his face. Slowly, he inched his way down the narrow steps. Once he was at the bottom of the steps, he heard another sound. He started to run back to the safety of the attic, but the familiar sucking sound drew him away from the steps.

I did all I could do for her, Doc.

It was him. His breathing quickened.

Damn it, Giles, why didn’t you call me earlier? I could have taken her to the hospital and at least given her antibiotics to stall the infection.

He knew the other voice, too; it was Doctor Logan. He only came when things were bad, like when his throat hurt or his stomach cramped, but he wasn’t sick, and his mother was better, at least well enough to be out of bed. Something was wrong!

She didn’t want to see you, Doc. She said it was just cramps. His father’s voice was calmer now. I tried to help her, fed her, kept the fever down best I could.

Help her? Help her? My God, Giles, she’s been up there like that for three damn days, and you didn’t even know it!

Beads of sweat formed on the boy’s narrow brow. His heart slammed against his chest, the sound of each beat echoing in his ears. Slit hog breaths returned.

I swear, I didn’t know. I thought it was just—

Christ, Giles, how could you not have known? Logan demanded.

I just . . . just thought she would get better and—

Better? Damn, Giles, it was sepsis! Infection!

Franky knew about infection. Germs, small things you couldn’t see, got into your body and made you sick. But with just a little iodine and a Band-Aid, things got better in a couple of days.

And it was your doing, you son of a bitch. Logan was shouting now.

The hell with you. I ain’t no doctor. I didn’t know.

You’ve worked on enough of them to . . . The voice was now more pleading than accusing. I was just a phone call away.

His father was shouting again. Had you helped her, she wouldn’t have done it. A sneering grin followed. So, I reckon you’re as much to blame as me. Besides, it was mine, not yours. It weren’t a bastard like the other.

Yes, Giles, I know. That’s why she aborted it.

Doctor, you need to take your forms and get the hell out of here.

Franky was confused. Bastard, he knew. That was something you called someone you didn’t like, especially kids. Even though he wasn’t sure what aborted meant, it seemed a lot like sepsis, something bad.

I’m leaving, Logan said as he adjusted his faded fedora, but you’re right about one thing. It was my fault. I should have made her press charges the last time you hit her. I should have made her leave you and this tomb you forced her to live in.

That’s a damned lie. I never hit her. Giles’s voice raised an octave and quavered. She fell just like she told you.

Their words echoed off the cinder-block wall. Sepsis! Aborted! Never hit her! Fell! Fell! Aborted! Fell!

Bullshit, Giles! You beat her, and it wasn’t the first time either. I had no proof, and she wouldn’t change her story, but I know a beating when I see one.

More echoes. Beating! Beating! Beating!

That’s what you saw. It ain’t necessarily what happened. And there ain’t no law that says I can’t do—

It’s not proper, but you’re right; there’s not any law against it. His words fell to a whisper as a tear rolled down his cheek. When will the wake be?

There won’t be no damn wake, Giles said without apology. Who the hell do you suppose would come anyway? It’d just be me and her bastard.

The boy shivered. Wakes were for the dead. Who died? Then he gasped. Moist hands clung to the iron railing while violent head shaking slung the beads of sweat into the air. The pounding in his chest became a crushing force that threatened to explode.

He had been scared before, but this was different. Was this what grownups called fear? A skinny, twelve-old boy was no match for this new enemy. In the movie he saw last year, the only one he ever saw, a man in a white hat riding a white horse rode up and saved everyone. Where was he now?

The narrow hallway began moving, closing in around him, trying to shove him down the staircase into the basement. Swallowing the sour fluid rising to his throat, he looked back at the kitchen. It joined the hallway in its attack, forcing him to crouch on the top step. Glaring down the staircase, he listened to the words filtering through the mist surrounding him.

For heaven’s sake, Giles, the poor woman deserves—

I’m her husband, not you. I’ll decide what she deserves or don’t deserve. Hell, what does she care anyway?

Listen, Giles, take her up to Winston-Salem or Greensboro and have them take care of her. It would be a load off your shoulders.

Giles sneered at the offer. It costs a lot of money to let them do what I can do for free. I’m not like you, Doc. I ain’t made of money.

Please, Giles. Let me take care of things in a respectful way, if not for her then for Franky.

Hearing his name, the boy moved down the stairway to where he could see and hear what was happening. He watched as Giles spit on a long pair of sharp scissors then rubbed it with a rag until it glistened.

Franky could see the sneer on his father’s face when he looked at the doctor. You must be feeling pretty guilty yourself, Doc, he said as he exchanged the scissors for a stainless-steel knife and brought it to the same shine as the scissors. Still not looking at his visitor, Giles continued. You let her marry me all the while knowing she was carrying another man’s bastard. Hell, you actually encouraged it.

I’ve told you a hundred times, Giles, I had no way of knowing the baby wasn’t yours. Even if I did, what could I have done?

You knew it were a bastard, alright. You could have told me.

Don’t call the boy that. He’s a good kid.

That’s what you call a kid born out of wedlock, ain’t it?

Maybe she made a mistake, Giles, but the boy is the innocent one in this whole mess. Besides, she more than paid for it by putting up with your torment all of these years.

Giles waved the knife at the doctor. You don’t know a damn thing about what I done or didn’t do. I took good care of her, he shouted. So you best tend to the living and let me tend to—

Giles, just think this thing through, okay.

I’ve done all the thinking I need to do. It’s you who needs to think things through. It’s you who has a gullet full of guilt to feed on.

You’re right, Giles. I have reason enough to feel guilty. I pushed her off on you when I learned she was pregnant. Even when she showed up at the office bruised and- Voice quivering, deep crevices distorting his brow, he continued, and I accepted her feeble excuses about how she fell or hit this or that. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to fail her now.

That’s your curd to chew on, but leave me be. I’ve got work to do.

For God’s sake Giles, don’t do it. Accusations and demands turned into pleas. At least let me take her across town to Bernstein’s.

I ain’t paying that Jew son of a bitch to do a job I can do, Giles grumbled as he swallowed the last drink from the bottle that had been full just hours ago. Now, just go.

I’ll go, but not until I see the boy is all right.

The boy ain’t none of your concern, Doctor, Giles yelled as he lit a cigarette and threw the dying match to the floor.

We’ll see! Doctor Logan said as he started up the steps. We’ll see!

As the doctor’s footsteps echoed off the steps’ bare wood, Franky edged back towards the kitchen and took refuge in the wooden cupboard.

After reaching the top of the stairs, the weary-eyed physician surveyed the living room for signs of the boy. Other than an overflowing ashtray on a dust-covered table that was usually spotless and shiny, a couch with rumpled pillows, and a matching chair in as much disarray, the room was empty.

Franky! Franky! Are you all right?

Damn it, I told you he ain’t none of your concern, Giles shouted from the basement. You got no business traipsing through my house. Get the hell out, and go out the way you come in - the back way.

The sound of a dog barking led the doctor to an open window. Sparks was at the edge of the yard yapping at some unseen threat, a rabbit, a cat, or perhaps just a challenge to the wind as it blew through the naked tree branches.

Leaving the dog to his windmills, Logan turned back towards the steps. You son of a bitch, he shouted, you killed her. After his burst of accusations, his voice softened as he turned to what the boy would be going through. At least she’s at peace, but the poor boy . . .

Giles was drinking the last of the bourbon when Logan shouted down to him, I will be back, Giles. You can count on it, and if anything happens to the boy, you will . . . His words faded behind the closing door.

The roar of the eight-cylinder engine and the rain of gravel on the side of the house drew Franky to the kitchen window just in time to see the doctor leaving in a cloud of smoke and dust, leaving Franky with only the barks of the German shepherd and the static prone radio.

Franky returned to his perch on the top step. The pump was now awake and doing its work. Franky was always afraid of the pump’s sound, but the lure of the pump and his need to see what was happening was stronger than his fear. He started down the rickety steps despite his pounding heart and shaking hands.

Is that you, boy?

With his fingernails buried in his clammy palms, Franky froze. The squeaking stairs had betrayed him. He cupped his hand over his mouth to muffle his gasping breaths.

Boy! A bottle shattered against concrete.

Another step - Another squeak.

Boy!

Reaching the last step, the trembling boy paused, his breathing now thick and heavy like fog on a spring morning. He tried holding his breath. That only made the next breath more forceful and demanding.

Through the open basement door, he could see most of the basement. Time and chemicals had pitted and stained the bare concrete floor. Other than yellow paint peeking through the peeling wallpaper, the walls were bare except for the large anatomy posters. Although the door still hid these, he knew they were there. They had been there for as long as he remembered.

To his left, a door opened to the side of the house. A variety of cheap pine coffins, dressed in satin to exaggerate their worth, lined up against the far wall. This appearance of grandeur at bargain-basement prices kept Giles Demsky in business.

To the right, hidden by the open door, was the long shiny table molded with delicate contours designed to guide the fluids making their way to the sump. Cleaned and polished after every use, the man cared more about its appearance than he cared about his own. On the side of the table, quiet and obtuse until called upon to churn clabbered red gel into a clear, pungent liquid, was the pump. Its rhythmic hum meant only one thing; it was work time.

In the background, the constant playing radio was reporting the latest news:e Drug Amendments Act has strengthened the role