The screen switched to another male, this one standing on the steps of a building Cain assumed to be a police station. The reporter, Destiny, was there as well but dressed in different clothing. “District Attorney Schwartz,” she pressed a microphone in the direction of the other man. “Can you comment on whether any of these women have suffered any other signs of assault prior to their deaths?”
The man appeared rather serious and sternly replied, “I’m not at liberty to comment. However, I would like to state, for the record, these are women of our community. They are mothers, daughters, wives, and sisters. Many of them have left families and friends behind. Most of these women were reportedly camping in what has always been a favorable environment for such recreation. I want to make this perfectly clear. Until whatever is out there is caught, these woods are not safe. Whatever is killing these women is strong and large. Don’t be foolish and tempt fate. I would also like to advise those who plan to participate in the upcoming hunting season. Don’t try to be a hero. If you see an animal approaching, use your head. Get to safety, or better yet, get out of there.”
The screen switched back to a split-screenshot of Destiny and the man at the desk. “Tragic,” the man at the desk declared.
“It is, Mike. Families throughout the community are struggling with the loss of loved ones. We’ll keep the victims like Dane and Cybil Foster in our thoughts and hope that we can soon bring whatever or whoever is out there wreaking such havoc to justice. This is Destiny Santos, reporting live from Jim Thorpe, Channel Six News.”
The screen cut away and the female was gone. Cain thought for a moment. Bodies drained of blood. Six victims. All women.
He had a lot to do. He needed to check on Larissa and then head home to see what was happening with his mother. Perhaps he should have a quick look in the woods surrounding Jim Thorpe before he returned to the farm. But first, he would enjoy the luscious blonde sharing his bed one last time.
Chapter 7
Eleazar prowled in the shadows of the trees just off the highway’s shoulder. As the autumn chill approached, greens burst into vibrant hues of plum, sienna, and gold. He had always found fall to be life’s most radiant bow before surrendering to winter’s cold. Yet, there was no sense of beauty where he stood now, only a sense of depravity lurking nearby.
Upon rising that evening, he suffered an undeniable pull to come to this exact place. He recognized it, perhaps from one of his dreams.
Cars rushed by in the dark, speeding past with fleeting impressions of mortal thoughts tickling his mind. The establishment across the freeway was a nondescript building with several vehicles occupying the lot—Club Silhouettes.
He frowned, confused how such a place could relate to his purpose. He should move on, yet his instincts insisted he get closer.
On a sigh, he crossed the road, hopped the median, and slipped into the lot between two parked cars. He heard a pulsing, rhythmic beat pumping from deep within what a mortal would declare soundproof walls. His ears prickled at a muffled moan. His black eyes sought out where the sound was coming from.
There, inside a shiny black car, was a woman leaning over a man’s lap. The man’s expression was enraptured by what the woman was doing to him.
The desire to return to his morally-rich home surged through him at the sight of such a public display. The English were hopeless.
Running a hand down his crisp, white shirt, Eleazar moved toward the door of the facility. The brown paint of the heavy metal door was chipped, showing patches of battleship gray underneath. Opening the door, the scent of human lust assaulted him.
What was this house of sin?
A low red light illuminated the small entry room. The dark, stained carpet cushioned his steps. There were two doors ahead of him. Music pulsed through the walls loud enough to vibrate the soles of his feet.
A large man entered the foyer. Eleazar sized up the other male. He was overweight. A trickle of sweat rolled over the coarse stubble covering his flushed neck. The man adjusted his belt and pressed a few fingers into the waist of his pants, wedging his black t-shirt inside past his paunch.
“Sorry, man, I had a taco earlier that didn’t agree with me.”
He gave the mortal a tight-lipped smile and probed his mind, seeking a name. Vito. He waited for the man to continue, finding silence often lent itself to authority.
Brushing his hands together, Vito asked, “Are you with either of the bachelor parties?”
“I’m not.”
“Okay, then it’s gonna be an eight-dollar cover, and there are two-dollar drafts ‘til midnight. You got ID?”