Free The Wizard Murders by Sean McDevitt
Authors: Sean McDevitt
and then it's in the west when the sun starts to come up."
"How do you know all this, again?" Pitt asks, incredulous.
"I told you- my daddy," Denise grins. "Back in Texas, when I was a little girl, he'd put me up on his shoulders and we'd go outside and he'd point them all out. And that one- it's also called the swan, I think it means 'swan' in either Latin or Greek- it's out all the time in the summer."
"Are you sure that's what you're seeing?" Pitt's pulse is starting to race.
"Well again, it could be that... it sorta looks the same in both pictures, I mean it's kinda rough, but that's what it could be." She notices Pitt's cheeks are flushed. "Are you thinking that someone's doing that on purpose?"
"Let me show you something." Pitt flips his notebook to the page where he has scribbled the mysterious message, and shows it to her: LOOK TO THE SKY, NORTHERN CROSS, 10404paseniw91781. Her words are gibberish as she attempts to read out loud the "paseniw" section.
"What is that? What does that mean?"
"I don't know, but that's what we found at the Oak Tree earlier." Denise repeatedly gasps as Pitt continues. "Munsell's taking pictures of it as we speak. And I'm pretty damn sure it was the exact same type of paint. So what that means is we've got some sick bastard out there who is now leaving us notes." Pitt takes the photos and places them back in the envelope. "He's leaving notes on our cars and now this."
"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God," Denise repeats rapidly.
"And I mean, these numbers, what are they supposed to mean?" Pitt points out part of the code. "91781. What is that, a zip code? Christ, what if it's a date- September 17th, Eighty-one? What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Lash everybody to their beds with duct tape on that date so they don't get killed?"
"What are you going to do? Does the sheriff's office know about this? The FBI?"
Pitt shakes his head. "Not yet. I wish we could handle it on our own, but it's just a matter of time until the feds are breathing down our neck."
"But don't you want their help?"
Pitt sighs. "Well, I do, but I also sort of wish we could make our little town look good on our own, because there's a lot of light on us now, a lot of people are watching us." He glances over Denise's shoulder. "Up to and including Don Marshall's brother, who just walked in the door," Pitt observes quietly. "It was his niece who first got killed."
Denise holds her head in her hands, her face neatly framed by long, fake fingernails painted pink. "Oh, no. Did he see you?"
"No. He's taken a seat at the counter." Bill Marshall looks quite a bit more haggard and unkempt than when Pitt last saw him at the bowling alley, over by the White Front store. As Marshall takes a solitary seat at the counter, clutching a folded newspaper in his hand, Pitt half-whispers, "Just how many times can you tell a victim's family that you're sorry for their loss?"
Denise shakes her head sadly. "Daddy used to say that telling someone 'Oh, they're in a better place now' or 'It's all part of God's plan' is the worst possible thing you could say to someone. Just tell them that you're so, so sorry, that's really all you can do."
Pitt turns his gaze to a nearby window, with its somewhat uninspired view of East 4th Street. His mind is buzzing, and his ears are ringing from the stress of the past twenty-four hours. Finally he speaks.
"You know, when I was a boy... I remember driving home late at night with my parents. We'd been out somewhere for the day... this was back before my brother had been born... I'd be in the backseat, my head down, listening to the engine roar. Maybe even the moon was peering in from above, I could see it through the passenger window. Mom and Dad would be up in front, and I could see the light from the dashboard. And I remember thinking, Mom and Dad have got everything under control, it's okay. Then I grew up and
"How do you know all this, again?" Pitt asks, incredulous.
"I told you- my daddy," Denise grins. "Back in Texas, when I was a little girl, he'd put me up on his shoulders and we'd go outside and he'd point them all out. And that one- it's also called the swan, I think it means 'swan' in either Latin or Greek- it's out all the time in the summer."
"Are you sure that's what you're seeing?" Pitt's pulse is starting to race.
"Well again, it could be that... it sorta looks the same in both pictures, I mean it's kinda rough, but that's what it could be." She notices Pitt's cheeks are flushed. "Are you thinking that someone's doing that on purpose?"
"Let me show you something." Pitt flips his notebook to the page where he has scribbled the mysterious message, and shows it to her: LOOK TO THE SKY, NORTHERN CROSS, 10404paseniw91781. Her words are gibberish as she attempts to read out loud the "paseniw" section.
"What is that? What does that mean?"
"I don't know, but that's what we found at the Oak Tree earlier." Denise repeatedly gasps as Pitt continues. "Munsell's taking pictures of it as we speak. And I'm pretty damn sure it was the exact same type of paint. So what that means is we've got some sick bastard out there who is now leaving us notes." Pitt takes the photos and places them back in the envelope. "He's leaving notes on our cars and now this."
"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God," Denise repeats rapidly.
"And I mean, these numbers, what are they supposed to mean?" Pitt points out part of the code. "91781. What is that, a zip code? Christ, what if it's a date- September 17th, Eighty-one? What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Lash everybody to their beds with duct tape on that date so they don't get killed?"
"What are you going to do? Does the sheriff's office know about this? The FBI?"
Pitt shakes his head. "Not yet. I wish we could handle it on our own, but it's just a matter of time until the feds are breathing down our neck."
"But don't you want their help?"
Pitt sighs. "Well, I do, but I also sort of wish we could make our little town look good on our own, because there's a lot of light on us now, a lot of people are watching us." He glances over Denise's shoulder. "Up to and including Don Marshall's brother, who just walked in the door," Pitt observes quietly. "It was his niece who first got killed."
Denise holds her head in her hands, her face neatly framed by long, fake fingernails painted pink. "Oh, no. Did he see you?"
"No. He's taken a seat at the counter." Bill Marshall looks quite a bit more haggard and unkempt than when Pitt last saw him at the bowling alley, over by the White Front store. As Marshall takes a solitary seat at the counter, clutching a folded newspaper in his hand, Pitt half-whispers, "Just how many times can you tell a victim's family that you're sorry for their loss?"
Denise shakes her head sadly. "Daddy used to say that telling someone 'Oh, they're in a better place now' or 'It's all part of God's plan' is the worst possible thing you could say to someone. Just tell them that you're so, so sorry, that's really all you can do."
Pitt turns his gaze to a nearby window, with its somewhat uninspired view of East 4th Street. His mind is buzzing, and his ears are ringing from the stress of the past twenty-four hours. Finally he speaks.
"You know, when I was a boy... I remember driving home late at night with my parents. We'd been out somewhere for the day... this was back before my brother had been born... I'd be in the backseat, my head down, listening to the engine roar. Maybe even the moon was peering in from above, I could see it through the passenger window. Mom and Dad would be up in front, and I could see the light from the dashboard. And I remember thinking, Mom and Dad have got everything under control, it's okay. Then I grew up and
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