Page 130 of Blood Moon

“That’s why I thought you ought to know that something’s up with him.”

“What kind of something?”

“The unit is full of his followers. You know, the people who still admire him and say he got a rotten deal.”

“Who says that?”

“A lot of people. Anyway, it’s like they’ve been mobilized, and they’re all in a flurry. On phones, on their computers, huddled and talking among themselves.”

The glass of vodka clinked against Tom’s teeth as he took a quick hit from it. Had the son of a bitch rallied his followers after the scene at his house? Trying to sound blasé, but actually holding his breath, he said, “You don’t know what all the excitement is about?”

“I overheard the name Molly.”

Hmm. She actuallyhadskipped. “His daughter. She’s run off before. She must have again. He’s probably called in some people to help him look for her. Has an official missing person been filed?”

“Not yet.”

“Then the faithful followers had better be flurrying on their own time and not on the PD’s nickel.”

“I think they are. Off duty, I mean. I’m sorry to have woken you up. I just thought you’d like to know, you and Bowie having a history over that Crissy Mellin case, and all.”

“One for the history books.”

“Um-huh. Which is why it’s funny that they’re whispering about that, too.”

“The Mellin case? What about it? The upcoming TV show?”

“Uh, not exactly, sir. I overheard one of them saying that Bowie was right all along.”

Professor Wallace carefully set his phone on his desk and absently tapped his fingers on the polished wood as he mentally replayed his conversation with Beth Collins, a wonderfully charming young woman. It really was unfortunate that her mission was on a collision course with his.

Hers was doomed to failure.

Yet one had to admire her perseverance and dedication to her quest. She had other calls to make?To whom?he wondered. Why the rush? Why were those calls so important that she had to cut short her conversation with him?

He picked up his phone again, accessed his text messages, and looked at the list of social media user names she and Bowie had sent him. As he scrolled down the list, he saw that it included several of his handles, not just one. How long would it take them to discover that?

No matter. He’d been open with them about visiting some of the darker websites. Visiting them occasionally did not a kidnapper make.

Indeed, most of the people who frequented those sites were oddballs and outcasts who’d resorted to an online community because they didn’t fit in anywhere else. Oh, they talked the talk in order to cultivate and impress virtual friends, but they wouldn’t have the courage to actually offer up a human sacrifice.

Which was why the inner circle was so elite.

How clever of John Bowie to have hypothesized that such an exclusive coterie existed.

Again, no matter. None who had achieved membership into Luna’s inner circle had been caught, except for the man in Jackson. Victor wondered what his circumstance was, what his real name was, which handle belonged to him, and what mistake the fool had made to get himself caught all these years after he’d sacrificed the girl named Anna.

Thank goodness he’d been more careful. Crissy Mellin’s disappearance remained a mystery to all and sundry. She didn’t quite count, though, because she hadn’t been purified. Therefore, he had been denied entrance through that sacred portal into the inner sanctum.

One ho-hum evening, while doing some research in preparation for a lecture on astrology, he’d done some exploration on the dark web. He was immediately attracted to one of the websites. So much so, he returned the following night, and the night after.

It was like entering a realm rich in fantasy, engorged with possibilities for success, power, sexual pleasure. It was a world apart from the stuffy life of a professor at a university of meager renown. At the heart of this wonderland, the source of all its suggested blessings, was the moon goddess Luna.

Almost nightly, he would linger on the site. He skimmed the milder posts, but he absorbed the edgier, more graphic ones: writings, photographs, sketches, paintings. Whether excellent or terrible, they were enflaming. They enticed him with their promises of deeper and darker material. Ofmore.

But soon he discerned that getting “more” was by invitation only.

He began posting, mostly complimenting another’scontribution, then adding something elaborative. He must have impressed, because after three months, he received a private invitation to join another group and was sent a link. He then had to undergo a stringent application process. It was a joyous day when he received a notice that he’d been approved. He was given access and was elated to be welcomed by members whose real names he would never know.