quietly and did not stir as they approached. He wore a simple green robe that covered his body completely. He was bald and was perhaps the oldest person they had ever seen. His eyes were sunken and dark. Large wrinkles lined his face and deep circles rimmed his eyes. His skin was the color of pale moonlight before a storm. His hands were wizened and the skin hung from his arms like the leaves of an ancient willow. The only ornamentation on his body was a large, brilliant red stone that he wore on a pendant that hung from his neck.
The two girls stopped to warm themselves by the fire. The dogs did not move, neither did the old man. The girls looked at each other, glanced at the dogs, and decided to sit down as they continued to warm themselves. As far as they could tell, death gave certain freedoms not normally available to young girls traveling alone in the wilderness.
The old man still did not move. He did not look at them. His eyes remained steadfast upon the fire. The girls glanced at him from time to time but said nothing.
After a while, the man closed his eyes and began to sing softly to himself. The girls could not make out the words to the song, but the sound was beautiful.
One by one, the dogs began to awaken. They quickly encircled the fire and, before they could move, the girls were surrounded. The old man continued his song. As he sang, the dogs glared fiercely at the two girls. The dogs did not approach them, but they did not need to. Their message was clear.
Abruptly, the old man interrupted his song. He rose without speaking, glanced at the two girls, smiled a wide, toothless grin, and motioned for them to follow. As he moved, the dogs parted silently in response to his gesture. The girls followed him into the house. The dogs followed the three of them to the door.
After the old man, Salva, and Melvina had entered the hut, the dogs stationed themselves in front of the door. The old man closed the door behind them. The dogs quickly fell asleep.
Chapter Four
The Case
Thomas Morton’s home was magnificent by any standard. Built in 1849, the mansion had 297 rooms, 112 fireplaces, 32 kitchens, 26 baths, 17 staircases and over an acre of roof. The design of the home was strikingly similar to Chatsworth, the 17th-century Derbyshire residence of the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire. Greensboro, North Carolina was a long way from Devonshire, England. Thomas Morton’s intention in building the largest house in Guilford County was to remind all who entered that he was descended from royalty.
The mansion sat on the edge of a wide oak forest. Morton found battling the elements in the country far more amusing than battling traffic in the city. The children had never wanted for anything in their lives. Each space in the home was designed to recreate the grand design of an English Tudor summer residence. The few neighbors that the Mortons had never suspected that the family would be the subject of the evening news—at least, not for this reason.
Mitchell drove past the large oak fence that draped the front lawn of the estate. The police had set up a perimeter around the entrance and he flashed his police consultant badge for the young officer on duty. The officer checked the badge studiously, nodded, and motioned to the senior officer in charge of the grounds to allow the alpine green convertible Jaguar to pass.
Mitchell paused for a moment to lower the roof of the vehicle and parked a few yards beyond the outer edge of the perimeter. He never had much chance to enjoy riding in the Jaguar with the top down. The ride out to the scene seemed like the perfect opportunity. He knew, however, that any minute now, Gerald would spot his car and demand the remainder of his attention. Mitchell removed the large medallion from his shirt, placed it over his chest, and closed his eyes. His breathing became deep and slow. After a few moments, a large ball of blue light emerged from his forehead and floated through the ceiling of the Jaguar. Mitchell took care to utter a quick word of obscuration over the ball as it left his mind.
The blue sphere floated high into the sky over the mansion. Even though Mitchell remained safely in the car, the sphere greatly extended his sensory perceptions. He could see the entirety of the estate from the vantage point of the sphere as easily as he could with a satellite orbiting from space. The sphere offered immediate access to information related to smell, taste, hearing, sight, touch, and a host of other extrasensory perceptive data streams.
Almost immediately, he picked up an unusual scent. The odor was oddly metallic, somewhat foul, not unlike meat that has been sitting too long on a kitchen counter. There was also something more—a sweet, sickening, flowery odor that cloaked the stronger foul odor. Extending his senses slightly, he saw the faint outline of a gray-red cloud. Mitchell knew that he was dealing with a murder scene. The perimeter tape, the number of cars, and the media blackout were standard procedure for crimes of this nature, especially in this neighborhood.
Curiously, he had not seen any evidence of the victims’ soul forms wandering around the grounds. Shortly after a violent death, the vast majority of souls wander around for days before fully comprehending what has happened to them. Before he could investigate further, he spotted Gerald walking briskly toward the Jaguar.
Mitchell was immediately jolted out of his meditative state. He muttered a word of dissolution and the ball instantly vanished. He looked toward the car window and saw Gerald’s smiling face. He knew that he would need to be more careful with his practices around his inquisitive friend.
“When are you going to let me take this baby for a spin?” Gerald had always admired a good racing vehicle.
“You have a standing invitation my friend...anytime you wish.”
“One day, when I get some time, I will take you up on that,” Gerald replied.
Detective Sergeant Gerald Holmes was a tall man. He stood just slightly over six feet six inches tall. Gerald had played basketball for the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill for three years during his college days. He never started for the team but was a valuable sixth man at the left forward position. He loved playing the game, even after his knee decided to give up the sport and shatter in two places during an off-campus pickup game. Following two surgeries, rehab, and extensive training, he was never able to regain his playing form. He enlisted in the Navy after college and specialized in military intelligence. After 24 years of duty, six tours in special ops, and three decorations for service during highly classified field operations, he met the woman of his dreams and retired from the Navy. His parents both lived in the Greensboro area and he decided to move back home to raise his young family. His children, Tammy and Nicholas, both attended high school at Grimsley.
Gerald had an easy smile and a calm, good-natured manner. People liked him and that made doing his job that much easier. His men respected his judgment, though some of them wondered why he frequently recruited a retired psychiatrist as a consultant on certain murder cases. The two men had been good friends for more than 25 years.
“So what happened here, Gerald?”
“This is another strange one, Mitch. Walk with me while I fill you in.”
Gerald led Mitchell down the long, winding garden pathway that encircled the Morton estate. The grounds were tended by a small retinue of full-time gardeners who had formerly been employed by a now deposed South American military leader. During this time of year, the gardens were alive with lavender rose bushes, pink and white dogwood blossoms, and blazing yellow tulips. Mitchell stopped briefly to admire the sculptures that lined the garden perimeter. He recognized the large replica of the Marcus Aurelius statue that faced the main entry to the home. Twenty yards away, he was certain that he spotted a replica of the Farnese Bull. The three graceful figures grappling with the majestic bull atop the beige and gray marble piece seemed to come alive as they passed.
“We have here the home of Mr. Thomas Morton. He was a very wealthy businessman, attorney, age 54, married 21 years, two children, both boys. From what we have been able to piece together, Mr. Morton was a collector of antique weapons. So far, we have found over 300 different artifacts, all catalogued on his hard drive and labeled according to age, date of acquisition, and country of origin. He used a model 1908 Mannlicher Schoenauer Carbine sniper rifle to kill the two boys. He used a .38 on himself. The security tapes show him killing