Chills by Mary Sangiovanni Page B

followed by mumbled comments carried on frosted breaths. So far as Teagan could tell, Morris and Kathy weren’t anywhere on the scene.
    â€œThis is one of three,” Jack said without looking at him.
    â€œOne of three what?” Teagan asked, joining him among the bodies. He took an unlit Camel from his flannel shirt pocket and popped it between his lips. He’d quit three years ago, but the presence and taste of the little stick, even just hanging there unlit, was both a comfortable affectation and personal challenge, a reminder of a vice he’d conquered. He blew on his hands to warm them up, then shoved them into the pockets of his jeans.
    â€œThree crime scenes just like this. Ormann Park, the Colby Public Library parking lot, a baseball diamond behind the high school on Fremont Ave. Information’s still trickling in, but estimates quote twenty-seven dead. Nine each at the three crimes scenes, which I’m sure Kathy will tell you is of occult numerological significance. All Colby townspeople. Business owners, bums, teachers, hairdressers, landscapers, cooks, carpenters, bus drivers, factory workers, retired folks, even cops. Kids, Teagan. Little kids. Third body from the left, that little one there, is a kindergartner. Gracie Anderson. She was five fucking years old.” Jack’s voice never rose above a tight, strained monotone.
    Teagan knew the man well enough to understand the incredible restraint it must be taking for Jack not to break, especially regarding the child. He felt much the same way at the moment. “Jaysus,” he said. “What the fuck is going on in this town?”
    â€œWell,” Jack replied, “Cordwell says at least three people at each scene were murdered by other people—our Hand of the Black Stars cultists, I’d say. And on those nine vics, Cordwell found evidence of manual strangulation, use of bladed implements—knives, straight razors, that sort of thing—and gunshot wounds. But the rest he swears are some kind of animal attacks, like our first John Doe.”
    â€œChris Oxer,” Teagan said.
    â€œYou ID’d him?”
    â€œAye. He used an ATM card at that convenience store, and the bank gave us a name. Family confirmed the identity. And here’s a biteen of news. They say the lad had taken up with some new friends—no one the family had ever met. They said Chris was almost superstitious in not talking about them.”
    Finally, Jack looked at him, then nodded. “Well, it looks like Oxer’s new friends had a field day this afternoon. And turning on him wasn’t enough, apparently. Most of these vics went the way of Oxer. Ripped apart, half-eaten, bones gnawed and snapped . . . and those damned symbols carved all over them still. But the killers made it easier to sort things out this time. Wallets and cell phones were all left behind. Like covering up the murders doesn’t matter anymore.”
    â€œWell, that was a sound bit a help, that.”
    â€œYeah. And the uh . . . jars . . . are over there,” Jack added, nodding in the direction of a cordoned-off park bench with a row of mason jars on it.
    â€œJars?”
    â€œEyes. Mostly eyes. Some tongues. A couple of fingers and an ear.”
    â€œFuck,” Teagan said.
    â€œI think the sigils bother me the most. Every one of these bodies has that same symbol as Oxer’s carved into it, or one like it. Damned if I can tell the difference, but they look pretty much the same to me. And apparently it’s the same deal at the other scenes. It’s like they’re being tagged, marked somehow as belonging to the cultists. That gets under my skin, ya know? They’re flaunting their sickness all over this town—bodies, jars. But no footprints, Reece. For all this fucking snow, not a single damned footprint, no animal droppings or animal prints, despite all the animal attacks that supposedly happened, and no evidence of snow