Sinful Silence Read online

  “We know,” Jordan said. His voice stone steady even though he had just received the first confession of his life. It wasn’t the scoreboard shot that the others talk about that overcame him. What he felt was the emotional release of a man who was drowning in his own sorrow and guilt.

  “I imagine you probably did,” conceded Mr. Stephens. “What do you want to know?”

  “Well, nothing about these,” Jordan said. He reached across the table and pulled the row of pictures into a neat stack that he placed face down on the inside corner of the table. He opened his brown leather portfolio and took eight pictures out, creating a row of his own. “This is what I want to talk to you about. What is the meaning of these symbols to you?”

  Jordan watched Mr. Stephens study them closely. He looked for any signs of confusion or disassociation. If a demon was present within Mr. Stephens when he committed the crimes, this Mr. Stephens may not even be aware the symbols were left. Jordan’s other senses already told him that nothing was there with them. There was no cold spot radiating out from Mr. Stephens or foul odor. All the outward signs he saw told of a man very familiar with what the symbols were. He even rearranged them into the correct order.

  Jordan was not a medium, like Megan claimed to be. That was something of a side show act he still felt was a con job to separate foolhardy people from their money in exchange for the removal of some guilt or remorse. Jordan never made any attempts to reach out and talk to anyone in the afterlife. In his opinion, it was stupid to do so. Kind of like throwing gas on a fire. Why mess with something you couldn’t control? If they were there, or anywhere around him, he could feel them. Their cold presence in and sense of darkness was unmistakable.

  There was nothing here, and he didn’t even feel what he called “the splash”. The after presence that was left on a member of the living that had been occupied by something from the afterlife or a demonic presence. Mr. Stephens was just a man. A very disturbed one, but still just a man.

  “Something of an obsession of mine, I guess. I saw it in a book maybe 20 years ago and studied it off and on. It fascinated me at how many belief systems had some form of it. Agent...” he stuttered and looked up from the pictures at Jordan. The gaze of his brown eyes was cold and lifeless.

  “Blake,” answered Jordan.

  “Agent Blake,” Mr. Stephens continued. “Do you know how many religious or mystic belief systems have some representation of the Tree of Life?”

  “I have some idea.”

  “That fascinated me. It made me think there might be some truth in it. Each look at it as the story of creation and the map to ascend to God himself.”

  “Is that what you were in search of?”, Jordan asked.

  “Oh, hell no,” Mr. Stephens answered, confused.

  “Then can you explain what your messages meant? When I read it, it says someone is searching for the knowledge to ascend.”

  Mr. Stephens looked back down at the photographs. He studied each and then looked at them from left to right. He read across them again a few times before he responded with, “I guess it does. I didn’t mean anything about them.”

  That answer was one possibility that had sat in the back of Jordan’s thoughts the entire time. All the studying and desire to use it to crack the case had pushed it way, way to the back. Back among the cobweb covered ideas from other cases he had only considered one time before discarding them. Hearing it now coming from the suspect surprised him. He made sure not to let it show and stayed dead stone straight when he asked, “Then why write these symbols at each scene?”

  There was a brief chuckle from the man sitting across the table from him. “I didn’t. Not at the first one. I was having a hard time sleeping one night and found one of my old books shoved in the back of my car and read a little to settle my mind. I read a little of it every night. One day I wrote one. Then another, and another. That’s all. It was just what I was reading.”

  “Were you reading anything on the occult?”

  “Oh no. Not at all,” stated Mr. Stephens. He exploded back in his chair. “No way.”

  “Then what does that mean?,” Jordan said, pointing at the picture of the two up right arrows. “That symbol is not part of the Tree of Life.”

  “That is not a symbol. That was my count. Two slashes for my second...” he paused again, choking on the word, “kill.”

  Jordan reached across and gathered up his pictures and closed them back up in his portfolio. He looked up and made firm eye contact with Mr. Stephens. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Stephens. Sit tight and we will be back with you in a moment.”

  Without another word, Jordan stood up and walked out of the room. Neal waited for him on the other side. “We missed one,” Jordan said.

  “I heard. Sounds like he is ready to tell us all. I’ll get it,” Neal said. His hand gripped the elbow of Jordan’s left arm and pulled him in close. Too close. Jordan could smell a hit of brandy on his breath. Had to have come from Neal’s one and only vice, and it wasn’t drinking. He loved to roll the Cuban corona cigars he kept positioned in his mouth in brandy. Something he once explained to Jordan gave them a sweet aroma when he smoked them. Jordan could hear the slight wheeze in his chest from his former habit when he took in and released two deep breaths. Neal leaned in even closer and asked in a hushed voice, “Anything with him?”

  “Nah, he is clean.”

  4

  There was something reassuring and refreshing about standing in front of your own door after having been away on such a long assignment. Even if the glow of a new day was starting to pierce the darkness on the eastern horizon. The familiar feel of the key as it slid in and turned the lock. That familiar spot where it sticks and takes a bit more force to send the tumblers into the right spot. The drag of the door against the carpet as you push it in, and the rush of air with every fragrance that screamed home.

  It had been three weeks since Jordan had last stepped foot in his own home. After weeks of staying in hotel after hotel, he knew his home. He also knew something wasn’t quite right when he stepped into the dark entry way. There was something off about it. A flick of the light switch on the wall revealed it. A vase of white orchids sat on the table in his living room. A large card was propped against the clear vase. From where he stood he saw the big loopy “Sorry” written on it. He knew who it was from. It also explained how they had gotten inside. He just didn’t know what Megan was apologizing for.

  Jordan dropped his bag next to the side of the sofa and sat down. His gaze was transfixed on the flowers. Inside, two debates bounced around in his thoughts. First, would he look at the card now or go ahead and give into the exhaustion and get some sleep. Second, how was he ever going to get that key from Megan.

  She lived there in Savannah, just seven blocks, or two historic squares away. It was a trek either of them could probably do in their sleep. They never drove over to see one another, after she first caught his eye. He was young and new, just out of the crash course version of the academy they sent him through. Another reason he didn’t feel like a full-fledge agent. Megan was just starting out with her own social media channel covering all things paranormal and holding live readings for people she met in the Savannah area.

  Jordan had never seen her show, he didn’t even know she had one, when he first saw her standing at the police line of a crime scene just up the road in Charleston. He didn’t think much of her presence there. She, like the dozens of other onlookers, stood there just behind the tape with their camera’s up taking pictures and recording what was going on. Unlike the others, she was beautiful. Her long dark hair flowed down over her shoulders, and her dark green eyes consumed him, even though he only saw a quick glimpse of them as they stared intensely at her phone’s screen. In contrast to her dark features was her perfect porcelain complexion, and pouty red lips. She looked like a doll. A five-foot-four tall doll with a perfect figure, that was an alluring combination of dark and mysterious wearing a dark dress that would be at home on the
hostess of any Halloween party, and bright shining personality that exuded from her even while she stood dead still.

  She was still there recording the agents cleaning up the scene when Jordan went to leave. When she whipped the camera around and exploded into commentary for her channel he was awe struck. The world around him was just a blur. The only thing clear was her, and he walked right over and introduced himself. Which was completely out of character when you considered his normally shy demeanor.

  What he expected to find was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen being just one of the normal onlookers that shows up when a crime happens in their neighborhood. What he found was an engaging and enchanting star. He simply introduced himself as agent Jordan Blake. An emphasis on the word ‘agent’ in an attempt to impress her, in case the badge that dangled from his neck at her eye level didn’t do the job. Her introduction blew him away. “I am Megan Tolliver, America’s Medium. Did you know this is the fourth mysterious death at this house since the Civil War? The original owner was a confederate colonel, who returned at the end of the war wounded. He died three days later. Ten years later, a family from New York bought it, and the old man has been haunting and killing them ever since.”

  That started a thirty-five minute discussion about the history of the old Victorian plantation house they found themselves at. Jordan had been called in because of some marks found on the victim that someone thought may have been a sign of some kind of ceremonial killing. He was local, so they called him in. An unusual event in his short career. His work was primarily relegated to reviewing cold case files that all traditional investigations found nothing to go on and maybe hinted at something else. Being called to an actual crime scene was rare at that point in his career.

  They were still talking by his beat up hatchback when the last agents left the scene and the body carted off to the morgue. Cause of death still to be determined, but there was nothing paranormal here. The marks were just scratch marks in the floor made from something that had been dragged across it years ago. The blood from the victim just happened to pool in them to make them look like something more. Jordan knew what it was the minute he walked in. In most cases, he would consider it a waste of an afternoon.

  They were still talking at a coffee shop back in Savannah when the summer afternoon thunderstorms rolled through. They were still talking as they sat on a bench around the fountain in Orleans Square in the cool summer night air. Their fascination of the paranormal fueled most of the conversation. Something both had a strong interest in fostered by their families and the stories they had heard growing up in one of the most haunted cities in America. There was something else too. Something that grew with every moment they spent together and caused Jordan’s heart to flutter when she smiled.

  Over the next several weeks, there were many more discussions at the coffee shop and on the bench. These evolved into walks, hand in hand under the majestic oaks that had stood over that land long before the roads and rows of buildings were ever started. The walks would start at one apartment and end at the other. Being a gentleman, a southern gentleman as his grandmother always emphasized, meant she may have walked down to see him, but he always saw her back to her place before taking the lonely walk back home. Not that he felt the loneliness with his heart in the clouds the whole way back.

  Months later, they were attached at the hip, never spending a non-working moment apart, and he gave her a key to his place. It was a gesture that he felt would lead to moving in together and a future, a true future together. She accepted it, and without any true discussion on the topic, she was there, moved in, making her one bedroom bottom floor apartment her studio for the show that had now started its second, small, syndicated run.

  When a betrayal sent the world crashing down around Jordan, he didn’t ask for the key. In the time that had passed, there had been several dozen opportunities to ask for it, but he could never bring himself to do it. Something didn’t feel right about it. Something didn’t feel right about the flowers. Who leaves flowers for a man, he wondered. Even as tired as he was, he knew his mind wouldn’t let him sleep until he opened the envelope.

  Inside was a card and a DVD. The card was one of those plain ones that said sorry on the outside, with a blank piece of paper stapled into the fold inside so you can write a personal heart-felt message. The message written for him was, “Jordan, I am sorry. I needed it. I still love you with all my heart, Megan.”

  Jordan fell back and sunk into the couch. The card still in his hand; and the DVD that accompanied it was on the table next to the flowers. He had a feeling what she meant without even looking at it, but he knew he had to know and stood up grabbing the DVD on the way to his television. The disk started when he pushed it in. When the theatric intro faded, he saw Megan standing in front of a bush. His detail obsessed vision noticed the front of the hotel the taskforce stayed at behind the branches.

  “Before we head out to visit Ms. Wilhelm and help her ease her pains and concerns about her beloved cats that left this world so tragically last winter, we have an update on a story we have been following...”

  Jordan had a hard time understanding why anyone would stay tuned for that, but he knew enough not to question it too much. She showed him her ratings from a season once. Things that were what he would call hard topics didn’t do anywhere near as well as these softer stories.

  “There has been a break in the case of The Runaway Occult Killer. Our favorite Paranormal friend, FBI agent Jordan Blake, has finally linked together the symbols that were rumored to have been left at each of the scenes...”

  Jordan’s heart fell from his sternum, through his butt, through the couch, and landed on the floor next to the dust bunnies that had gathered there since the last time he shoved a dust rag under it. Graphics showing the very same symbols she had seen when she walked up behind him were now displayed on the screen next to her.

  “Some of you may already recognize them as we have discussed some of these on previous shows. These are each portions of the Tree of Life. The very description of creation and our evolution toward our creator. These combined with this,” the two arrow ends were displayed above the other symbols, “completes the sentence and I believe tells us the motive behind this killer’s devious and demonic actions. The arrow ends tell us, he seeks to acquire the knowledge to ascend to his creator, or more plainly said, he is taking lives in order to meet God.”

  Jordan slapped the button on the remote and shut it off before Megan provided anymore analysis. He felt the return of a sickening feeling. She had done it yet again. There was a line drawn, a clear line. Everything they talked about was off the record. It had to be. His job required it, and she knew that. It was never really a problem either. He trusted her. He really did. Whether or not the emotions he once felt for her clouded his judgement and made that trust misplaced was, well, debatable.

  The last time she did this ended their formal relationship and resulted in a series of very uncomfortable discussions with his superiors at work. Through flowing tears, she tried to explain to him how bad she needed the break to keep her syndicated show going, but Jordan was furious. His career was impacted, and his trust broken. The one he had for her, and the one his superiors had for him. Jordan still remembered feeling her arms wrap around him as she cried and pleaded for him to understand. As he remembered it, his own arms stayed stiff and cold by his side.

  This time will probably result in a similar conversation at work, but maybe not as severe. The information she had really had no consequence on the case. It didn’t matter though. She didn’t know that, and still used it.

  Jordan threw the remote on the couch and headed off to bed with the light of the early morning now coming in through the windows. A few hours of rest and he would be ready for the day, or hopefully more ready than he felt now. He put his cell phone on the bar that separated the kitchen and the dining room. It buzzed as he headed down the hall toward his bedroom. He had no intention of checking the message.


  5

  Jordan rolled over and cracked open his eyes. Beams of daylight snuck in through the gaps in the blinds and invaded his bedroom. He didn’t know what time it was, and didn’t really care. He was exhausted. Mentally, physically, and spiritually worn out. Every muscle in his body ached as did his brain. What he wouldn’t give to just roll back over and doze off again. Both his body and brain begged for it, but the career called, as did the stack of cold cases he had on his desk in the office. Each case had one or more “oddities”, that the investigation couldn’t answer. They weren’t just unsolved crimes; those would be easy to dismiss and put in the cold case files. These went beyond that. Pieces of evidence or the crime scene were beyond explanation, which meant they were sent to his stack for review, advise, and possible investigation.

  It was a slow roll up and swing of his feet to the floor, where they dangled for a few minutes while his hands attempted to rub the senses back into his head. Two big yawns followed by a stretch almost sent him back to the mattress, but he resisted and slid forward letting his feet contact the cold wooden floor. He felt as dead as some of the subjects of his investigations. A nice hot shower and a few energy drinks were the medicine that could bring some life back into him. The caffeine wouldn’t do anything for the sickening question in his head. Should he call Megan or not? His hands rubbed up through his short brown hair. Each finger dragged along his skull. Neither found an answer. A shower first, and then caffeine. After that he would figure out how to deal with the elephant in the room.

  Jordan had taken the first three of the seven steps needed to reach the bathroom when he heard a sound beyond his bedroom door. It wasn’t loud, but it was there. The next two steps took him back to the bed, where his service revolver sat on the nightstand. With the familiar steel object in hand, he crept toward the bedroom door, thankful neither the floor nor the door creaked in his turn-of-the-century-row house. A product of the recent renovation before he moved in. He cracked the door open and looked out. The hallway was still dark, but there was a light coming in from the kitchen. He knew he didn’t leave it on. Hell, he didn’t remember even setting foot in there last night.