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They arrived in Forks, Washington with more than a little fanfare. Their small unit was agitated and the entire town had their noses pressed against their windows. Jamie and Susanna met with Chief Swan in the early hours of their arrival, grim and sorry. They had quickly learnt that the murder of Waylon Forge was personal in the small town, even more so in the police force where he had been friends with many.
"He was torn apart," Chief Swan said quietly over his cup of coffee.
"I'm sorry," was all Jamie could say back.
He had a terrible coldness pressed to his spine. The skin on the back of his neck prickling over and over, ever since he had read the words carved above his bed. No amount of rationality was able to ease the smothering fear, and Jamie felt as if there was a beast in his shadow. He felt like a child again, afraid of the monster beneath his bed. Nobody is invincible, he told himself, and didn't feel any better for it.
He hadn't told anyone about the message, not even Susanna, who had asked him the next morning if he had slept. He hadn't, not able to bring himself to touch the bed again after the scratches had almost frozen his fingers when he traced them. He had caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror, seeing the dark circles ringed beneath his drooping eyes. He was ashen and when he went to smooth his hair, his hand was shaking.
They stayed three days in Seattle, barely back a week in Portland before they got the call. Jamie, who had been curled by the toilet in a cold sweat, missed his phone the first time that it rang. He already knew what had happened, he had been tormented by it in the nights before they reported it as murder. Watching fingers tear through flesh as easy as butter, feeling scalp peel as hair was seized back to bare the neck, he had awoken to his bedsheets sticking to him with a scream at his lips. He had rolled over and vomited, heaving as his legs collapsed when he stood.
It was the worst yet. Prolonged and sadistic, the killing was for an audience, for him. He could feel the glee, the pleasure and self-satisfaction. Unlike the others there was little hunt in it, only violence and cruelty intended to make him sick. There was a conscious effort to make it known that they understood he was there, in their thoughts and memories. Behind their eyes. For a moment, only for a split second as he looked through the vile fog, he had a notion of his own face. A purposeful flash in coherent thoughts, right before teeth pierced skin.
For the first time in a long while, Jamie felt deathly afraid.
He had thought of talking to Susanna, or even asking to be taken off of the case, but neither had excuses good enough. Susanna would think him mad and the Portland Headquarters would think him too lazy or too stressed. Even if he escaped the responsibilities hanging over the murders, he was too close to the tail to stop the chase. He had seen their faces, the woman wreathed in fire and the man whose voice rang like distant bells. He had felt enough of the one he had dreamt of. Enough to know that there were no intentions but to hurt; intentions with him in mind.
