Twisted (Burbank and Parker 1)

minute or two, then raced back to the bedroom to explore the strange, new smells.

It was only then, when Sloane was sitting alone on the floor, that she felt the throbbing in her palm and the pain in her index finger. She looked down and realized she was still clutching her pistol.

And she knew that, pain or no pain, she would have used it.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-FOUR

DATE: 16 April

TIME: 0900 hours

I’d made a fine selection. The right goddess to replace Tyche.

Linda Crowley. Professor of East Asian Studies at Princeton. Artemis had audited her Advanced Mandarin class last fall. Professor Crowley, who took brisk evening walks around Carnegie Lake, who enjoyed the simple wonders of nature. She would have been an ideal Demeter.

But when I arrived, university cops were patrolling the streets and swarming the campus like ants on an anthill. Security was tight, and the entire community was on high alert.

The grounds were deserted. No one was walking around Carnegie Lake or anywhere else. Success had escaped me.

I left Princeton in a hurry, heading as fast as I could toward home.

That’s when it struck me.

The extended involvement of the FBI and police departments throughout New York and New Jersey had squeezed me out of my home turf. Campuses in both states would be like high-security prisons. Fulfilling my mission would be impossible.

With that realization, I lost it entirely. I’m sure no one could blame me, not even the gods. I was trapped. Stuck in an immoral world, powerless to reach Mount Olympus.

Filled with rage, I drove so recklessly that I was lucky to make it home alive. Once inside, I smashed whatever was in my path—chairs, tables, the vases I’d bought for Demeter’s flowers. I even put my fist through a wall, ignoring the cuts and lacerations. I actually considered going back to Queens and butchering every whore in the borough, just to spit in the cops’ faces.

I pictured the whores. Their depraved bodies and faces after I slashed them to bits. I fell to my knees, dug my knife deep into the carpet, and tore it apart, visualizing their bleeding, severed bodies as I shouted obscenities. I grabbed the furniture that was in my way, hurled it against the walls. Pieces of wood shattered, like the bones and ribs of their bodies.

Abruptly, I couldn’t breathe. The room started spinning, then fading, dark spots flashing before my eyes. I fell to the floor, gasping for air. For one horrifying minute, I thought I was dying, that this was the gods’ punishment for my falling short of their expectations. Death, followed by hell. No. Please, no. This couldn’t be what they intended.

Comprehension dawned. I had to prove my worthiness. They were testing me. I couldn’t, wouldn’t, fail them.

I crawled into the kitchen, grabbed a paper bag, and breathed into it until the hyperventilation subsided.

I wasn’t going to die. I had to find another way to fulfill my mission.

Seeking inspiration, I went into the room I’d crafted for Artemis, stopping to collect my precious childhood book. I sat on the floor, slowly turning the pages, starting, as always, by reading and rereading the loving inscription. I read on, pausing on the story of Demeter, then focusing on the illustrations of Artemis and Apollo. The archer god and goddess, both depicted with their bows and arrows.

That’s when I remembered the photo I’d seen on her dresser.

And suddenly there was hope.

Again, the gods are smiling down upon me. My alternate plan for a substitute for Tyche exceeds the original by far. Professor Crowley had been an excellent choice. But this is a windfall.

I smile as I think of the age-old sales pitch: “Buy one, get one free.” I wish I could let its creator know how far I’d surpassed it. My slogan would read: “Buy none, get two free.”

Hunterdon County, New Jersey

11 A.M.

Sloane was frustrated and edgy.

She and Larry still hadn’t finished a comprehensive list of everyone who’d crossed paths with her in her lifetime. Analyzing and reviewing it at least a dozen times hadn’t helped. She never realized how many people she knew. And the list just kept on growing. However, none of the individuals she’d come up with seemed to fit the profile of a serial killer.