Devil's Trap

VIII

Before Jack was even out of the taxi at the station, Fitzgerald found the two of them from the sidewalk. "We have another scene downtown," he yelled. "Sorry, kid."

Stella got back in the car, letting her head fall against the headrest. They sighed. Jack rubbed his eyes, suddenly feeling a headache pound against his skull.

The scene was a good thirty minutes away, just enough time for a nap. Stella yawned, her head hitting Jack's shoulder.

"I'm not being a vamp, I'm just tired." Closing her eyes, she muttered, "You can lean on me too, if you'd like."

Jack didn't object. The bumps and jolts in the road kept them both awake, but they pretended. They pretended they were asleep, they pretended they were unafraid, they pretended that they were immortal. Harold Grey couldn't touch them. The people on 3604 Waverly Street couldn't hurt them. There was a constant masquerade in their minds. Pretending that their feelings weren't hidden from the world.

Something about this particular facade made Jack's heart pick up. With his head in her hair, he felt like he didn't have to pretend. And with all of his extensive knowledge of psychology and human behavior, it irritated the hell out of him that he couldn't place the feeling.

The cab driver honked the horn as a literal rude awakening. Jack offered his hand to Stella as they got out of the car, both of them a little dizzy.

The scene was just a few blocks from the other crime scene, both of which were in close proximity to Waverly Street. There were more pieces to the puzzle now. More and more was falling into place, while simultaneously falling apart. He and Stella were both dreading their fate of further espionage.

The body on the ground was a man this time. He was also young, around twenty five to thirty. There was a symbol carved into his forehead too.

Someone handed Jack a camera, and he began to painstakingly snap photos of the scene. Stella walked around the body, surveying the scene.

"Don't touch anything, Augustine," Claude warned. Stella rolled her eyes.

"Was there a Grand Pentacle at the other crime scenes?" She asked.

Fitzgerald cocked his head. "A what?"

"That five pointed star with the circle around it? The one that the man is lying on?" She asked, met with only blank expressions. Jack met her eyes, even confused himself. "You all thought it was a pentagram, didn't you?"

Jack nodded. "Yes, actually," he said. "Is there a difference?"

Stella put her hands on her hips. "Pentagrams are used for pagan and satanic rituals. They have little significance to Christianity or Catholicism," she said. "A Grand Pentacle is a simplification of the Grand Heptagram, a Catholic symbol, otherwise known as a Devil's Trap."

"How do you know all of this?" Healy asked skeptically.

"Because I did my research before I decided to play a demon onstage. I'm a very committed actress," she cooed, again surveying the body. "This entire time we've been looking for satanists. We aren't. We need to find some Catholics who are getting a little carried away."

"What do you mean?" Jack stood up.

Stella looked down. "This man was exorcised."

Claude put a hand on her shoulder. "Are you sure?"

Her eyes instinctively rolled again. "Ligature marks. Signs of torture. Names of demons carved into his forehead." She glanced to Jack. "The one on his head is a symbol of Mathim, a Duke of Hell."

"I'll get you the other crime scene photos," Jack said. Stella nodded a grateful stare to him.

Stella continued to tell Healy and Claude about the symbols, while Art Fitzgerald followed Jack to a pile of folders with photos.

"You aren't stuck on Miss Augustine, over there, are you?" He asked. Jack scoffed.

"What's it to you?" he asked, hiding a little bit of blush in his cheeks.

"I'm just warning you, pretty boy, that there's a reason Claude threw her out there as a candidate in the first place," he said. Jack shook his head, reverting his attention to the stack of folders. "Didn't she tell you why they're acquaintances?"

"Yes, she told me about the Boston mob case," he said. "Do you have any other enlightening information to share with me?"

Fitzgerald clicked his tongue. "Sorry, pal. Claude offered up your choice bit of calico because she tried to kill herself back in Boston. She was a prostitute, and he talked her off of the ledge of a building."

"That isn't true."

Fitzgerald shook his head. "You're pretty damn good at analyzing behavior. Look at my face."

Jack clenched his jaw. "Why are you telling me this?"

"For your own good," he said. "Look, kid, the only reason you need to know this is because if anything happens, the world can't miss Miss Stella Augustine. And she won't be missed. Understand?"

With his head heavy and his eyes enveloped in renewed exhaustion, Jack nodded. A surprising amount of emotions were going through his mind. Betrayal, anger, fear, and the overwhelming motif of exhaustion was taking over.

He grabbed the folder he needed and walked back over to the rest of the team. Everything he looked at seemed out of focus, blurry and cold. He shivered. His sleep deprivation coupled with mild wrath was making the flow of oxygen to his brain slow. The time was now three in the morning, meaning he had slept only three hours out of the last forty eight.

"Winona?" Healy asked. Jack snapped out of his stare. "We need to hear more about your talk with Harold Grey."

"Yes. Of course," he said. Stella looked at him with a concerned look on her face. He was about to speak again, but Stella cut him off.

"He told us that Clara visited a church organization at 3604 Waverly Street," she explained. She glanced at Jack. "That information came with a price."

Before anyone could ask, Stella pulled down her dress sleeve. The outfit was considerably less pretty now that there was blood on the seams, a torn strap, and the fact that she was standing in a room with a corpse in her shadow. Claude looked concernedly at Fitzgerald, who then looked to Healy.

"I thought you said that this wasn't satanism?" Healy said.

Jack gritted his teeth. "It isn't. Its a Petrine Cross."

"It asks humility of its wearers," Stella said. It had just occurred to Jack that they would both have Petrine Crosses scarred below their collarbones for the rest of their lives. Maybe humility could kill that terrible foible of arrogance of his. Stella's extensive knowledge on the subject was already teaching him that lesson.

Thinking of her was almost painful. The preexisting headache amplified that notion, but the fact that she was selected simply because she could be thrown away sickened him. She was so talented, so intelligent, so beautiful. Jack rubbed his temples. It was stupid, especially with his understanding of her predicament, to even think of her like that. If there was one thing he was not, it was stupid.

"Winona, you don't look so good," Claude said. "I think you should really get home."

He nodded. "If there are thing to be done-"

"Go home, kid." Fitzgerald spoke up. His eyes were apologetic. "Take Augustine with you."

Stella nodded to him. "Let's blow, big timer."

They walked out of the room, Jack still feeling like his soul was made of lead. Human lives were not meant to be gambled with. Human lives were not meant to be tossed aside. Especially Stella's.

She was not a girl who was meant to be forgotten.