Free Forbidden by Jacquelyn Frank Page B

to be dwelling happily in the juxtaposition of its apparent harmlessness and its immediate innocence in the eyes of all the mortals he came into contact with. All he had to do was lapse into the simpleton behaviors the mortals expected from a Down syndrome adult and he could smile and bounce his way through any door … under any guard. It was a stroke of genius, actually. Chatha had found the perfect sheep’s wool in which to hide the exquisiteness of the wolf that he was. But Chatha would never rise above his position in the universe because he was pretty much a psychopath. He had been as an original and he continued to be more so with every copy.
    As Kamen turned his back on Chatha’s murderous little frenzy to follow, he made his way to the warmth of the SUV waiting nearby. He climbed behind the wheel, sitting silently for a long moment, watching Chatha pounce over and over again on his dying amusement.
    “Somehow I find his frenzied attacks far more comforting than watching him go about his business in that more methodical way he has.”
    “He’s had dozens of incarnations in which to perfect his mania. I consider it something of an art form,” Kamen remarked in return to the woman sitting beside him. “This frenzy you see, that’s the interference of hishost. The host is disorganized, most likely because of its disability, and almost frantic … probably because it’s being forced to take part in something that might usually go against its moral code. Though he has subjugated his host’s soul for the most part, it still bleeds through on occasion.”
    She tilted her head, her clear blue eyes narrowing on the bloody tableau in front of her, the analytical mind within her contemplating so many possibilities. There were many explanations, but only one really mattered at the moment. One truth that made a difference.
    “So I gather we missed her?”
    “So it would appear. But—” He broke off as movement down the street caught his attention. He reached to rap a knuckle on the glass, and Chatha immediately went still. Kamen watched as a man skidded down the drive of a small house, pulling out the service weapon on his belt as he ran shouting down the street.
    “Well, that’s not good,” his companion noted dryly.
    “Watch. He’s pure poetry,” Kamen reassured her.
    The cop ran down the sidewalk toward Chatha, who immediately plopped down in the snow on his backside beside the body he’d been manhandling moments ago.
    Jackson drew a bead on the two bloody figures in the snow. One of them was still as death, the other was bawling his eyes out as if someone had stolen his puppy. He saw Jackson’s gun and shied away, covering his head with both hands as if it would afford him protection.
    “Don’t shoot me!”
    “I’m a cop,” Jackson said quickly, taking in the bloody skin and clothes of the weeping adult male. His features were instantly identifiable, his innocence automatic and obvious. Now that Jackson had dismissed the Down syndrome male as a potential threat, his eyesdarted up and down the street warily. “Was there a woman here?”
    “They took her,” he answered helpfully, his whole face lighting up in a smile. “Can I be a cop? Did I help?”
    “Sure,” Jackson said absently, even as panic was washing sickly through him. “Who are ‘they’?”
    “Two bad men. They took the nice lady after they killed this man. They were mean bad men. I couldn’t help. They hurt me.” The frown and tears reappeared.
    Jackson’s frustration knew no bounds. Something had happened to Docia, and his only witness, it appeared, was a man with what appeared to be the mental maturity of a six-year-old. But maybe he’d get lucky. A lot of Down’s adults could be very high functioning and were veritable fonts of information. Maybe once he calmed down he would be a better source of clues as to where Docia had disappeared to.
    “What’s your name?” Jackson asked him.
    “Andrew. Andy.”
    Jackson lowered