CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
Ella woke up to the sound of catastrophe dressed as morning television.
Her neck felt like someone had replaced her spine with rebar, and her tongue had grown fur. Papers stuck to her cheek - last night's research marathon turned pillow. She'd fallen asleep at the hotel desk somewhere between translating a passage about quintessence and running Ezra Crowley's description through every database she had access to.
The room did a slow spin as she peeled herself off the makeshift pillow. She remembered bits of last night's investigation through a haze of exhaustion. Hours of hitting dead ends, of cross-referencing property records, of feeding ancient text through translation apps that spat out gibberish. Around 3 AM, she'd tried to find Ezra Crowley online and couldn't.
No trace of his real identity anywhere. The guy was a ghost who'd somehow acquired access to an abandoned clothing store. Which meant either expert-level identity concealment or Ella hadn’t dug deep enough.
The book - Corpus Hermeticum: The Divine Pymander of Hermes Trismegistus - still lay open where she'd left it. More of its symbols had revealed themselves through the night - diagrams of elemental transformations that made her head hurt. The translation app had managed to decode some Latin, but it was the medieval equivalent of a PhD thesis written on acid.
The vessel must embody the element it becomes.
The symbols must be applied post-transformation when the vessel has achieved its elemental state.
The Great Work cannot be rushed.
Something nagged at her consciousness. A sound that had pulled her from chemical-induced slumber. She blinked sleep from her eyes and tried to focus.
Television. Morning news.
‘You’re awake.’
Luca's voice made her jump. He perched on the edge of his bed like a statue someone had dressed in FBI casual. His attention was locked on the TV like it held all life's answers .
‘Define awake.’ She tried to work feeling back into her legs. The burns had stiffened overnight, turning simple movement into an exercise in masochism. ‘What time is it?’
No answer. Just that thousand-yard stare at the television.
‘Hawkins?’
Still nothing.
That got her attention. Luca had two modes - talking your ear off or dead silent. The second one usually meant there was a problem.
She followed his gaze to the TV. Channel 4 News had that specific tone they used when something horrible had happened but they needed to fill airtime until more details came in. A helicopter shot showed emergency vehicles gathered around the base of Storm King Mountain like vultures at a funeral.
The anchor's voice carried that fake-serious tone that made everything sound worse:
‘...the balloon was discovered early this morning by hikers near Storm King Mountain. The body of pilot Tessa Webster, 32, was found inside the gondola. Witnesses report seeing the aircraft flying erratically yesterday afternoon before losing altitude...’
The footage cut to a shot that kicked the air from Ella's lungs. A balloon lay deflated across the rocky ground like a fallen giant. Red and yellow nylon spread out in a hundred-foot circle. The basket lay on its side, a blue tarp draped over one end.
‘The deceased has been identified as an experienced commercial balloon operator with over ten years of flight time. Sources say Ms. Webster was transiting the balloon to an upcoming festival in Columbia County when contact was lost...’
Ella's mind snapped into focus. She knew what Luca would say before he opened his mouth. The same thought was probably burning through both their skulls right now.
‘Ell, we've got earth, water...’
‘And now air.’
But how? How would someone cause a hot air balloon crash? This wasn’t luring someone to a quarry or reservoir. This was a whole new level of organization.
‘You think this is our guy? Storm King Mountain is about what, ten miles out of here?’
Ella grabbed her phone and hit Ross' speed dial. He picked up on the first ring.
‘Ella. What’s wrong? ’
‘The hot air balloon crash. On the news. Have you heard about it?’
‘Heard about it? I’m at the scene right now.’
‘You’re there?’ Ella breathed. 'And no one thought to call us?’
‘No. Why would we?’
‘We've got an unsub targeting people with links to elements and you're all standing around a balloon crash without even considering-' She caught herself, forced her voice level. 'How long have you been there, Ross?'
‘We got here an hour ago. Cleanup is in operation. Looks like a bad accident.’
‘No,’ she protested. She was already reaching for her jacket. Even Luca should have woken her for this. Some partner he was. ‘Look around. This could be our guy.’
A moment of silence. 'Doubt it. There's only one body here. I don't care how good our guy is, he's not psychic. He can't make a,'
‘Look for symbols. On the rocks, on the balloon, anywhere.’
‘I did. There aren’t any. Nothing carved, painted, scratched - nothing like the quarry or reservoir scenes.’
Ella moved the phone away from her ear. Her pulse ramped up as she tried to think things through to make sense of this. Could this be a freakish coincidence? Was she seeing things that weren't there?
She glanced down at the translations she’d jotted down in her notepad from last night. It all rushed past her eyeballs in a blur of samey, nonsensical drivel, but then something suddenly clicked. A spark igniting in the back of her brain that quickly caught traction.
The symbols must be applied post-transformation, when the vessel has achieved its elemental state
In the case of Marcus Thornton, the killer had left their marks prior to his death .
But with Sarah Chen, the killer must have visited the scene post-murder to leave their mark.
Which meant that, if this was their killer, they’d need to get to this crash site too. In person.
‘Ross,’ she snapped, ‘Secure the perimeter. No press, no civilians, no one gets near that balloon.’
‘What? Why? Look, I’ve really got to get going. I can meet you at the precinct in-,’
‘No. Trust me. How many people are there?’
‘I don’t know. Loads. It’s drawn a crowd. ’
'Good. Keep them there. Don't let anyone leave because our killer might be one of them.'
Ella hung up, turned to Luca, who was already dressed in his best. ‘Hawkins, we need to get there.’
‘Yeah. Luckily I’ve been ready for an hour. Get your ass into gear.’
Ella checked the time. 8AM. Of course, Hawkins was already raring to go. He could put a soldier to shame with his regimented routine. 'How far’s Storm King Mountain?’
‘Forty minutes if we break every traffic law between here and there. But is our killer dumb enough to invade a crime scene swarming with cops?’
Ella was already pulling her jacket on. ‘What do you think?’
‘You know ritualistic killers better than anyone. You tell me.’
‘It’s pattern-completion compulsion.’ Ella rushed around the room, grabbing what she needed. ‘Their need to finish the sequence overrides normal risk assessment. It's like OCD on steroids. To him, leaving the ritual unfinished would invalidate the entire process. Look at BTK. He broke into crime scenes after the fact just to pose his victims correctly. Couldn't stand the thought of his 'work' being incomplete.’
Luca was at the door. ‘Good thing I wore my running shoes. What if our killer can’t finish his work?’
‘Then the whole pattern falls apart. Five elements, five symbols, five victims. Break the chain and you break the spell.’ She pulled the door open. ‘Which means they'll risk anything to get those symbols on that balloon basket.’
‘Including walking into a crime scene full of cops.’
‘Especially that.’ Ella was already halfway down the hall. ‘Because to them, we're not law enforcement. We're just obstacles.’