The Devil's Footprints. Amanda Stevens
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Large puddles near the body. Arterial spurts on the walls. It was as if the poor woman had been bled dry.
Sarah couldn’t see any wounds. The damage was hidden by the position of the body, and she was suddenly very glad that the victim hadn’t been turned over.
She put a hand to her mouth. “What did he do to her?”
“It’s probably best if you don’t know,” Sean said.
Sarah forced herself to take a deep breath and the vapor made her eyes water. She glanced around the room. It was large with high ceilings and ornate molding that had recently been restored. Two long windows faced the neighboring house, but the glass had been covered with cardboard and taped securely at the edges, allowing no light to show through to the outside.
Sean hadn’t been exaggerating earlier. The udjats were everywhere, even staring down at them from the ceiling.
“Did he use her blood to draw them?”
“We don’t know that yet, but I’d say it’s a pretty safe bet.” He paused, gesturing with a gloved hand. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”
She had. A long time ago.
A full-length mirror had been propped against the wall opposite the doorway and positioned so that the body could be viewed from certain angles. But Sarah’s gaze was riveted, not on the reflection of the victim, but on the wall behind her.
She glanced over her shoulder at the words that had been scrawled backward in blood.
uoy ma I
She turned back to the mirror and read them again in the reflection.
I am you
A rush of panic blindsided her, and she took an involuntary step back, right into Sean. His hands gripped her arms to steady her. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I just…I don’t know. That message on the wall kind of threw me.” She nodded toward the mirror. “Was that already here?”
“Not according to the workman. He said this room was empty when they knocked off work on Friday.”
“Why would the killer bring such a large mirror with him? Just so you’d be able to read his message?”
“I don’t think so,” Sean muttered. “I think the son of a bitch wanted to watch himself.”
Sarah moved toward the mirror, catching a glimpse of her own reflection. Dark, sober eyes stared back at her. Black hair tangled from the wind. Pale skin. Dry lips. No wonder Sean had commented on her appearance. She did look like hell.
From where she stood now, she could still see the strange message on the wall behind her reflection. I am you.
“Maybe I was wrong earlier when I said he wants you to know he’s watching. Maybe he’s trying to tell you that someone is watching him.” Sarah could see her lips move in the mirror, but it seemed as if someone else had spoken. She felt an odd detachment from her own reflection.
“What are you talking about?”
She shook her head, not really understanding her own thoughts. “Maybe I should just look at the tattoos.”
Sean took her arm and circled her around to the other side of the body, careful to avoid the blood on the floor. The victim’s pale, waxy skin provided a macabre canvas for the ink on her arms and legs.
Her head was turned to the side, but her blood-matted hair concealed her face. All Sarah could see was one eye, open and staring. Like the painted udjats on the walls and ceiling, it seemed to follow her as she knelt on the floor beside the body.
“Do you know who she is?”
“No, not yet. We’re checking with the neighbors, but so far no luck.”
“When did it happen?”
“According to the coroner, she’s been here at least forty-eight hours.”
It had probably happened on Saturday night then, only a few blocks from Sarah’s house. She found herself wondering what she had been doing at the exact moment of the woman’s death. Had she experienced any kind of premonition, some inexplicable sign that evil had been that near?
She bent her head and tried to concentrate on the tattoos. Skulls, dragons, serpent-entwined crosses. Nothing creative or unique about any of them. The designs were typical of the flash found on the walls of tattoo parlors all over the city.
But the red-and-black symbol on the victim’s back…that was unusual. And it was fresh. Scattered on the floor beside the body was the familiar paraphernalia of Sarah’s art—thimble-sized ink cups, Vaseline, soiled paper towels. The killer had tattooed his victim at the murder scene. And he’d taken care to do it right.
That explained the barricaded windows, Sarah thought. He knew he’d be a while and didn’t want to worry about discovery.
She leaned forward, studying the blood that had oozed from the needle stippling and dried on the woman’s skin.
Behind her, Sean said, “She was still alive when he did that one.”
“Looks like it bled quite a bit. She may have been drinking before he brought her here.” The danger of excessive bleeding was why they never tattooed drunks at the shop. That and the morning-after regrets.
“We’ll find out when we get the toxicology report.”
Sarah paused, struck by something he’d just said. “What did you mean, she was alive when he did that one? The tattoos on her arms and legs are old. You can tell by how badly most of them are faded.”
“I was talking about the pentagram in her right palm. See here? Ink smears, but almost no blood.”
Sarah stared at the tattoo for a moment. Sean had called it a pentagram, but he was wrong. She started to correct him, but his attention was still focused on the victim’s back.
“That’s a pretty big tat. How long would it take to apply a design like that?”
Sarah shrugged. “Several hours, depending on the artist. But this guy’s no scratcher. He knows what he’s doing. Look how clean and sharp the edges are.”
“What about the ones on her arms and legs? Any chance you recognize the artist?”
She shook her head. “Nothing stands out about the style, and the designs are pretty run-of-the-mill. And like I said, they’re old. She’s had most of them for years.”
The creak of a footstep made them both turn. Danny came into the room and stood looking down at the body. He cocked his head, studying the strange design on the victim’s back. “Hey, I never noticed before, but from this angle, it looks like a pair of naked women.” He tilted his head the other way. “With really big breasts.”
“Very helpful,” Sean said. “It doesn’t look like much of anything to me.”
“That’s because you’ve got no imagination.” Danny squatted at the dead woman’s feet. “You know what it reminds me of? No, seriously. It looks like one of those inkblots that shrinks use to analyze their patients.”
Sean started to say something, but Sarah turned excitedly. “No, he’s right. That’s exactly what it looks like. A Rorschach inkblot.”
“What does it mean?”
“It means something different to everyone who looks at it. That’s the whole point. A patient’s spontaneous response is supposed to reveal deep secrets or significant information that can be used in a psychological evaluation.” Sarah turned back to the body. “There are only ten true Rorschach inkblots. Five black-and-white, two red-and-black and three multicoloreds. They’re kept secret to protect the integrity of the test. The inkblot cards you see on TV and in movies are most likely fakes.”
“What about this one?”
“I