The Delilah Complex

Sixty-Four

Four men were lying tethered to hospital gurneys. I didn’t want the carnage to be real, but it was.

Who brought these men here? And where was Daphne?

Sweat rolled down my back. My legs shook so badly I had trouble standing.

My mind was not functioning.

Arrrg.

I heard the sound and screamed. What was happening?

The dead do not talk.

They do not moan.

But these men were moaning.

In the gloom, I saw the bright red marks on the soles of their feet. Numbers painted-of course, painted-painted in red.

2

3

4

5

There was no number 1.

Why was that gurney empty?

Where was number 1?

The chorus of grunts entreated me. When I was an intern on the psychiatric ward at the hospital, I had seen faces like these. They were drugged, sedated.

Thorazine.

Damn it.

None of us had thought of it-the men were not dead.

Damn it.

All of us-Jordain, Perez and I-had been looking for a serial killer. I’d studied everyone I met connected with the Scarlet Society for just one woman who exhibited any of the personality traits of a mass murderer: a psychopath with no regard for human life. A monster who killed for thrill and sexual satisfaction.

We all knew the stats.

Eighty-eight percent of serial killers are Caucasian men aged twenty to forty. More than seventy percent of them operate in a specific location or area. In a chart of serial killers’ childhood development characteristics created in 1990, the three most dominant behaviors included daydreaming, compulsive masturbation and isolation.

They are dominant, powerful and controlling men. Who often have trouble perceiving the difference between themselves and God. Many believe that God is, in fact, telling them what to do.

By keeping these men prisoner here, by drugging them and holding them against their will, someone had committed a grievous crime. But it was not the work of a serial killer. Not the work of any kind of killer at all. Every one of these men was blessedly alive.

We had all been looking for the wrong kind of criminal. Of course we hadn’t found him.

I moved among the men and, one by one, felt for their pulses and undid their gags, rushing, my fingers fumbling. There was too much to do at once. Triage was all about quick decisions. First, make sure everyone is alive. Check to see if anyone is in a life-threatening crisis. Then worry about their comfort.

None of the men appeared to be in acute danger.

Yes, sedated, but clearly not dehydrated or starved.

And not dead.

Not at all dead. I needed help now.

I pulled out my cell phone again-there was still no signal. We were too deep in the bowels of the earth.

I had to get to Jordain. As soon as possible.

“I am going to go and get you help,” I said to the men, and then turned to go back up the dark, steep steps.