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  Reviews for Tortured Spirits.

  “The fourth installment in Lamberson's Jake Helme Files (after 2011's Cosmic Forces)” is an action-packed blend of hard-boiled urban fantasy and puplpy horror"

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Another deft mixture of private-eye and horror themes, and, as with Desperate Souls, Lamberson grounds the story in reality by focusing on Jake’s own personal journey into darkness as he struggles to save his best friend.”

  —David Pitt, Booklist

  “The fourth installment in Lamberson’s Jake Helman Files is, for lack of a better word, simply epic. (It is strongly suggested you catch up on the series for maximum effect, but newcomers shouldn’t be too lost.)”

  —The Horror Fiction Review

  “What about mystery lovers? Steer them directly to Gregory Lamberson and his Jake Helman Files series about a New York City police officer turned PI specializing in supernatural crimes. These are gory and horrific novels, but they are also imaginative and original, with a strong investigative story line.”

  —Neal Wyatt, Library Journal

  “Out of five severed heads, I give this one five. This has been one of the best Jake Helman books Gregory Lamberson has written, and I for one am eager to see what he will be able to come out with next and how Jake will be able to deal with his next challenge. . . . Gregory has created a vast universe where the possibilities are endless. . . .”

  —John Rizo

  “The fourth Jake Helman paranormal investigation returns to the graphic violence of his earlier novels. Helman and a female police detective follow a trail of clues from New Orleans to a remote island where voodoo practitioners have raised an army of zombies. The shambling undead are being used as workers raising an exotic new drug, so their masters don’t take kindly to outside visitors, even if they are on selfless missions to aid a friend. As if that wasn’t bad enough already, a demon has taken interest in their activities, and there are more obstacles to overcome. . . . [Tortured Spirits] is written in a headlong style that will carry you to the end with surprising speed.”

  —Don Dammassa

  Dedicated to my pal Joseph Fusco

  Published 2013 by Medallion Press, Inc.

  The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO

  is a registered trademark of Medallion Press, Inc.

  If you purchase this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Copyright © 2013 by Gregory Lamberson

  Cover design by Arturo Delgado & James Tampa

  Edited by Lorie Popp Jones

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-60542-749-2

  “She wanders about at nighttime, vexing the sons of men and causing them to defile themselves.”

  —Zohar, 19b

  “Someday a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets.”

  —Taxi Driver

  The door crashed open behind Jake, and the sound of hissing filled the corridor, drowning out the sound of his footsteps.

  Jake skidded to a stop and raised the gun to his shoulder. Through the night vision scope he saw a creature with the upper body of a woman and the lower body of a snake bearing down on him at an incredible speed. He aimed the gun in the other direction and saw a corner fifty yards ahead. Dropping the weapon on its strap he sprinted, his boots pounding the tile floor.

  The hissing grew louder and more frantic.

  Jake turned the corner and slid to a stop. He freed the ATAC’s strap from around him and raised the weapon to his shoulder. Through the scope he saw the creature whip around the corner and look in his direction. He lowered the barrel over his stump and lunged forward, thrusting the knife on the barrel’s edge.

  The knife cut into something solid, and the beast unleashed a hideous sound. Jake drew the blade out and thrust again, cutting into her sternum a second time. He pulled the blade out again, but this time something smacked the ATAC out of his hand with a whiplike snap, and he knew the monster had used her snake body to disarm him.

  Jake backed up, ready to run, but something ensnared his ankles and jerked his legs out from under him. He landed on his back with a grunt, then clawed at the floor as the creature dragged him toward her. Lightning flashed outside the windows, illuminating her as she released Jake’s ankles and wrapped her snake body around his legs and torso, pinning his arms to his sides.

  1

  Laurel Doniger awoke alone in her windowless bedroom. Except for one night spent in the arms of Jake Helman, she had lived in seclusion for three years. She met with clients, of course, and Jackie Krebbs, the building’s engineer, saw to her needs as far as food deliveries went, but otherwise she experienced no human contact. Worse, she had not set foot outside the storefront property, which served as her home and business, during all that time. But at least she was alive.

  In the kitchen, she turned on the radio and the television. She had no difficulty processing the separate streams of information. The weatherman on The Today Show predicted clear skies and a beautiful day in New York City, while on the local radio news station a commercial for therapeutic cloning ended.

  Lying on a mat on the floor, Laurel stretched and performed forty-five minutes of calisthenics, including jumping jacks, squats, crunches, sit-ups, push-ups, calf raises, lunges, and running in place. She followed this routine every day; confined to her apartment, she got no other exercise.

  With a sheen of sweat clinging to her body, she showered, dressed in a simple green summer dress, and prepared egg whites and a fruit salad. After breakfast she swallowed numerous vitamins, a necessity because sunlight no longer touched her skin.

  At 9:00 a.m., her front door buzzed, another routine. Laurel slipped on some comfortable shoes—she only wore them when she had visitors—and crossed the sunken parlor. The five-inch monitor mounted next to the door displayed a short, wiry man with a full head of bushy white hair and a mustache that hid his upper lip. He looked like a character in a Dr. Seuss book. Using the keypad, she shut off the alarm system and twisted the four locks on the door. She stepped back as Jackie entered.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Good morning.”

  “Do you need anything?”

  “No, thanks. I’m all set.”

  “It’s going to be a beautiful day.”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  “Jake still isn’t back.”

  Laurel already knew. She would have sensed Jake’s vibrations in the building if he had returned. “Maybe today.”

  “I hope he’s all right.”

  So do I.

  “Holler if you need me.”

  “I will.”

  Jackie stepped out into the sunlight, and Laurel closed the door, relocked it, and reset the alarm. She knew Jackie had a crush on her, so she was careful not to encourage him in that respect, but she depended on him for too much.

  Stepping down into the sunken parlor, she passed the only furniture in the room: a round table covered with a red cloth and two chairs. She never saw more than one client at a time.

  One hour later, Laurel studied the pretty brunette in the monitor. The woman had introduced herself as Janet Roge
rs over the telephone. Laurel unlocked the door and stepped back, then pressed the intercom button. “Please come in.”

  Janet opened the door, allowing sunlight to flood the inside of the parlor. Laurel remained in the shadows as the woman entered. Janet appeared as a silhouette until the door closed, shutting out the light. “Miss Laurel?”

  “Yes.” Laurel locked the door and gestured to the table. “This way.”

  Laurel stepped down into the sunken room and sat on the far side of the table, and Janet sat opposite her.

  “Have you had a reading before?” Laurel said.

  “No.”

  “How can I help you?”

  “My husband, Alex, is missing. He works in Manhattan and commutes from Long Island every day. We’ve been married for six years. The only thing we don’t have is a child. Last year I learned I can’t conceive. He’s been drinking a lot since then—I guess we both have—and we’ve been arguing.”

  Laurel didn’t want to think about Long Island. “Couldn’t you find a psychic out there?”

  “I wanted to go somewhere I wouldn’t be recognized.”

  “I told you my fee over the phone.”

  Janet reached inside her purse and took out some folded money. “It’s all there. You can count it if you want.”

  Laurel closed her fingers around the money and felt Janet’s vibrations strengthened through the twenty-dollar bills. She saw the woman counting out three hundred dollars and sticking the money into her purse several hours earlier. “That isn’t necessary.” She set the money on the table.

  “I’ll need a receipt.”

  “When we’re done. You’d like me to tell you where your husband is?”

  Janet offered a weak smile. “You read my mind.”

  Laurel rested the back of her hand against the table’s surface between them. “Take my hand.”

  Janet slid one hand over Laurel’s, and Laurel closed her other hand over it. A low electric current passed through Laurel, who tried to show no reaction. A barrage of images assaulted her at blinding speed, and conversations Janet had engaged in echoed in a cacophony. Years earlier, Laurel would have found it difficult to sort through the visual and audio data, but now she did so with ease while Janet gazed at her with curiosity. Light blossomed through pleasant moments and darkened over unhappy experiences.

  Laurel pushed the light aside and traveled through the darkness. A ticking grandfather clock loomed before her, showing 1:00 a.m. Janet’s Suburban occupied the driveway of her Long Island home. The clock struck 2:00 a.m. A man’s face filled her vision as he called Janet crazy. In the garage a shovel struck the back of his head with skull-rattling force.

  Flinching, Laurel looked down as she pulled her hands away from Janet’s. “I can’t help you.”

  “Why not?”

  Laurel looked into Janet’s eyes. “I just choose not to.”

  “That’s it? What about my money?”

  Laurel slid the money across the table and left it there. She did not want to reengage her connection with this woman.

  “I came a long way to get here. I don’t want my money back; I want my reading.”

  Laurel’s jaw tightened. “And you want a receipt?”

  “I want to know where my husband is.”

  “You already know where he is: four feet underground in woods a quarter of a mile from your house. You put him there after you buried a shovel in his skull.”

  The color drained from Janet’s face.

  “He was leaving you for another woman, so you killed him. You’re a suspect in the case, but the police haven’t found any evidence yet. You only came here today for the receipt for my services, so you can claim you’re doing everything you can to find him.”

  Janet leapt to her feet, almost knocking the chair over. “You’re a freak.”

  Laurel watched her scramble out of the sunken room. “The police will find Alex’s body eventually. Things will go better for you if you turn yourself in now.”

  Janet twisted the doorknob, and when the door wouldn’t budge she fumbled with the locks. Then she jerked the door open and fled into the bright sunlight.

  As soon as the door closed Laurel turned the locks and reset the alarm. She didn’t cry, which was something at least. Janet had only left her feeling nauseous. Laurel had no idea if the police would find Alex Rogers’s body; she did not see into the future. She could only hope her bluff would shake Janet enough to drive her to confess her crime. Sadness for Alex crept over Laurel, who dared not call the police.

  As she crossed the parlor an explosion caused her to jump. Spinning, she gazed at the curtained front window. Seconds passed, and then light flickered through the fabric, followed by a second explosion, this one closer to the building.

  Thunder and lightning, she thought. But that was impossible. She had just seen sunshine outside, and the weatherman had predicted clear skies. She ran to the door and switched off the alarm, then reached for the top lock.

  She froze, rigid with fear.

  Then she reactivated the alarm and hurried across the parlor. She reached as far as the table when thunder exploded again, producing a boom that reverberated through the walls. Laurel lost her balance and fell to the floor. She wanted to curse herself. How had she been so clumsy?

  The whole building shook. Grasping the table’s edge, she climbed to her feet.

  Thunder roared again, so loud it sounded as if it had originated inside the parlor. The lights blinked and went out.

  Standing in the dark, Laurel glanced at the keypad on the far wall. Its power light had gone off as well. She knew the emergency generator would kick on in less than one minute.

  Lightning flashed outside, briefly illuminating the parlor, and when the thunder followed Laurel knew she was no longer alone.

  2

  Jake Helman held his breath as murky green water pressed around him. No more than ten feet away, a splotched tentacle, as thick as a killer whale and as long as a city bus, stretched. The sight filled him with awe as much as fear. This was not a genetically engineered monstrosity born in a laboratory but a creature that had existed almost since the dawn of man. It had survived and evolved into a god. He wanted to flee, but there was nowhere to go: this was the giant creature’s domain.

  Other tentacles uncurled around Jake, creating multiple currents that tossed him. He spun in the water and swam the way he had come, but two tentacles arched before him in opposing directions, forming a giant X. He swam between them, but another tentacle shot past his head like a spring, and another ensnared his feet and tugged him toward the creature. He kicked with all his strength, but the creature held him like a grasshopper.

  Another tentacle ensnared his sternum, its great suckers fastening onto his flesh. The tentacle raised him before all four of the creature’s ancient eyes.

  With his heart pounding like vodou drums, Jake inhaled water, his lungs filling with icy death.

  Jake sat upright in a king-size bed, gasping for air, his heart still pounding. Moonlight unspooled through the slats of the blinds, and an air conditioner hummed. It took a moment for him to remember he was in a hotel in Mooresville, North Carolina.

  Soft fingers slid up his naked right arm, caressing him. “Are you all right?” Maria Vasquez said.

  He raised his left arm to wipe sweat from his forehead, only to remember he had lost his hand on Pavot Island. Setting the bandaged stump aside, he lay back down. “Yeah.”

  “Avademe again?”

  He nodded, his head whispering against the pillow. Of all the horrors he had faced, Avademe clung to his subconscious, refusing to release its hold.

  Maria curled up beside him, her nude body warming him.

  Swallowing, Jake stared at the stucco ceiling. Despite his fatigue, he did not wish to fall asleep again. Sleeping meant waking in a cold sweat.

  Jake slept after all and did not awaken until morning when Maria stroked him to full attention and they made love. They took separate showers, and Maria c
hanged the dressing on his stump.

  “I can’t wait to get out of these clothes,” he said.

  “You just got into them.”

  “I want to wear some other clothes. My wardrobe’s been pretty limited this last month and a half. I wasn’t expecting such a long trip.”

  “It was worth it, wasn’t it?”

  Jake thought back on the war they had fought together on Pavot Island—the lives lost and the souls freed. He thought about Edgar. “God, yes.”

  Maria rubbed his beard. “When are you going to shave this off?”

  “Never.”

  “You’re starting to look like a hillbilly. That won’t fly in New York.”

  “I’ll trim it.”

  She gave him a sympathetic look. “You don’t need to hide who you are.”

  “I just want to hide these scars.”

  A few months earlier, one of the humanoid children of Avademe had raked the left side of his face with its claw, leaving four deep trenches. The beard masked half of each scar, although the scars sliced through the facial hair as well.

  “You’re a good-looking man.”

  He grunted. “Once upon a time maybe.”

  “You’re conceited and self-pitying at the same time.” Maria placed one hand on his chest. “It’s what’s in here that matters.”

  He smiled. “It’s a good thing.”

  Jake took their luggage out to her Toyota, which they had retrieved from New Orleans, where she had left it before flying to Miami and then Pavot Island. The July sun rose early, humidity dampening his shirt.