Beyond the Blood Moon

by Vic Robbie

He’d never been in favour of uneven odds and always sided with the underdog. And he joined the affray, pulling the kicker by the collar with his left hand and bringing his right elbow down hard, restructuring the nose of the attacker who yelped in pain and staggered away.

  The other attacker was on his knees, pummelling the now still body of the tramp with his fists, and he grabbed him in his trademark headlock. The man’s arms fell to his side as life appeared to drain from him. He exerted more pressure than necessary and wanted to go all the way and snap the man’s neck, but a collective gasp reminded him of Bulldog, and he allowed the attacker to retreat, massaging his neck.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked as the tramp regained consciousness.

  ‘Yeah, my own fault, but I guess I’ll live to beg another day.’

  He picked up a discarded fedora and offered it to the tramp. ‘Here, you’ve inherited a hat.’

  ‘Thanks,’ the tramp gave an open-mouthed smile showing a mouth of broken yellow teeth.

  After reviewing the pictures on their cameras, the crowd dispersed, some grumbling, and several glared at him for spoiling their fun. And one growled, ‘All non-persons should be executed.’

  On the wall near the elevators, the businesses were listed with their floors, and he ran through them, failing to find Ready Advertising. Thinking he must have missed it, he repeated his search, but there was no company of that name listed.

  He headed over to the reception desk and asked a buttoned-down man about them, believing he must have made a mistake taking down the address and was in the wrong building. The man consulted a directory and, with a shake of the head, said, ‘Sorry, sir, never heard of a Ready Advertising, and I’ve been here three, maybe four, years. Haven’t come across them.’

  His pained expression forced the receptionist to go back to the directory. ‘Ah, of course, there’s a company called Billboard Bonanza. Are they who you want? They’re on the second floor.’ And he nodded towards the elevator. ‘Have a good day. I’m sure you will.’

  Perhaps they could point him in the right direction.

  A blonde with her hair in bangs greeted him with a wide smile. ‘Good morning, what a beautiful day as every day is, of course.’ But she dialled down the radiance a couple of notches when she realised that he wasn’t in a mood to discuss the weather. ‘Welcome to Billboard Bonanza.’ Her smile was more forced now. ‘How can I help you today?’

  ‘First,’ he pointed up, and her eyes followed his finger to the ceiling. ‘Is that your billboard on the roof?’

  The full smile returned. ‘Why, yes.’

  He was relieved. ‘And the model is?’

  ‘Why, Solo Blue. Everyone knows her.’

  He smiled, and she relaxed. ‘Good, I must contact her. Do you have a phone number or address?’

  ‘That’s impossible.’ Her face clouded, and she studied him with suspicion. ‘Couldn’t give you that even if I had it. Someone like Solo Blue gets many requests from admirers. It’s best you give me your name and number, and I’ll see it’s passed on to her management.’

  He reached into an inside pocket and glanced down at his feet, and she shrank back wondering what was coming next. From his wallet, he extracted a small photograph of Becky and placed it in front of her.

  ‘Have you heard what happened to this little girl?’

  Bending to peer at the photograph, she shook her head.

  ‘A serial killer abducted her.’

  She put a hand to her mouth in horror. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Exactly.’ He drew a finger across his lips and scanned the area as if to ensure no one was listening. ‘This is top secret. Can’t get out.’

  She nodded.

  ‘We need your help to get her back. You could save her.’

  Her eyes opened wider.

  ‘Not even Solo Blue has heard about her niece.’

  ‘Oh, no, not her niece. Poor Solo.’

  ‘So, it’s vital we find her as soon as possible.’

  ‘But I don’t have her contact details and…’ She appeared helpless, her shoulders dropping.

  He glanced around the reception area in frustration and spied a large digital display on the far wall. It resembled a digital clock and caused him to check his watch. Something wasn’t right. The numbers were different, and the seconds appeared to be going backwards.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked in bewilderment.

  ‘Why, that’s our countdown clock.’

  ‘Countdown to what?’

  ‘You know,’ she giggled. ‘Everyone knows that.’

  He stared at her and her eyes flickered around, looking for help. ‘The countdown to the new century,’ she explained.

  His mind grappled with the arithmetic as he reckoned that he wouldn’t see the new century unless there were miraculous breakthroughs in medicine. ‘When’s that? It’s not so long ago we were celebrating the new millennium.’

  Undecided whether he was serious or joking, she blurted, ‘Less than two years as it says there.’ She pointed at the display with a shaking hand.

  ‘What year do you think it is?’ he asked.

  With a look of pity, her eyes searched his, wondering if she should tell him. ‘Why, 1898, of course.’

  He reached out for the desk to steady himself as the now prevalent dizziness engulfed him.

  ‘Wait.’ She flapped her hands, wanting to see the back of him. ‘Contact her agents. They’d help, I’m sure.’ She scrambled through papers on her desk, trailed a finger down a list of addresses, reached for a pen, took off a glove and wrote down the information.

  ‘Take this.’ She thrust the paper into his hand. ‘I hope that helps you find the little girl.’

  He thanked her and left, ducking as another blast of cold air hit him. But the agents weren’t as helpful. Despite the piped music of Billie Holiday’s Easy Living, a receptionist with a false smile wasn’t intent on making things easy for him. He was referred to an officious woman who refused to release Solo’s contact details, and a couple of security guards arrived to eject him from the building.

  He could have taken them both, but it would have been pointless. At least, he’d proved that she existed, but it troubled him. He thought the receptionist had said they were in the nineteenth century.

  Got to get to the hospital as soon as possible.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Dusk fell as silently as a discarded chiffon scarf before the man emerged from the house and climbed into his car. He’d changed out of a jacket and tie into a black bodysuit with a black skullcap and gloves. The car started up, its headlamps illuminating the windows of the house, now all shuttered, and headed out of the drive. The blood moon covered everything with a reddish tint which made it easier to see. Or be seen, Solo realised.

  As they drove down to the coast through an area she recognised, she relaxed. If Headlock had a phone, she’d have been able to alert him to her progress. But he was strange. Everyone had a phone these days, and she’d soon acquired a replacement for the one destroyed in the explosion. It was abnormal to be phoneless. She’d have to do this alone, solo she thought and chuckled, although she was unsure what the killer might do if confronted.

  What will Headlock say when he hears I’ve identified the killer?

  The more familiar the surroundings, the more confident she grew, and she smiled. The driver headed for Fisherman’s Quay and turned into the parking lot, pulling into a vacant spot as far away from the restaurant as possible.

  She parked near the restaurant and hoped he wasn’t here just to meet someone and have a meal and a drink before driving home. This was Headlock’s favourite watering hole, but she’d have to force herself to stay away from him.

  Her prey got out of the vehicle and approached, and, shaking, she shrank down in the seat, but he hadn’t seen her. To her surprise, he walked past the restaurant, and moved on, disappearing into the alley. Why had he returned to the scene of his crime? The only reason could be he’d left a vital clue that would
incriminate him.

  The last thing she wanted was to go in there again, but curiosity got the better of her. Keeping low, she pulled herself out of the car and closed the door behind her so that it clicked shut. As her broken shoe was causing her to limp, she took off both and crept along, reassured that at least one had a wicked heel that she could use as a weapon.

  At any moment, she expected him to re-emerge and confront her, and they were too far from the restaurant for anyone to help.

  She paused at the entrance and listened but heard nothing. It was difficult to see, the light of the moon struggling to break through the intermittent cloud. Against her better judgement, she entered. It was even darker because the high walls blocked out the light and, picking her way, she feared she might trip over another body.

  At the bend in the alley, she hesitated, battling to control her heavy breathing. She flattened herself against the wall and, conscious of her clothes rubbing on the abrasive brick surface, moved on. She now realised that the stiletto shoe she clutched in her trembling right hand would be of little use if attacked. She swallowed hard and listened. There! Something! Someone trying to suppress their breathing. Fabric rubbing against brick.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  He was mesmerised by Leonardo da Vinci. The longer Ottomon stared at the self-portrait the more it seemed to draw him into a trance so that he was convinced it breathed and the image moved. There was another presence in the room with him.

  He rose from the straight-backed wooden chair he’d been sitting on for several hours, and the eyes followed him.

  Wherever he stopped, the head appeared to turn, and the image stare at him. It was uncanny. But why didn’t he experience something, a strengthening of body and mind, elevating him to a different plane? An inner force, something superior to a normal human being. A revelation that some used to claim they experienced when accepting religion, but so far, nothing.

  ‘Leonardo,’ he appealed hoarsely and then louder as if to wake the dead. ‘Give me a sign, a message. Strengthen me to carry on my work.’

  Leonardo didn’t reply, although the look in those eyes appeared to change.

  He was impatient with Skarab. His theory that the drawing didn’t have the power to enhance a person’s psyche, but you could benefit from it if you allowed yourself to believe it had, didn’t satisfy him.

  Eager to put it to the test, he followed Skarab’s advice and locked himself away with the drawing so that its mystical powers might infuse his being. Although it was what he wanted to hear, he suspected the scientist was trying to buy time.

  After another session studying every aspect of the drawing and captivated by those eyes, which he suspected were mocking him, he was disappointed. He wanted to throw something, but nothing was in range apart from the drawing in its special display case.

  Frustration was the most debilitating of emotions. He stormed out into the gallery and poured a half tumblerful of contraband whisky and drank it in one swallow, burning his throat, and threw the crystal glass the length of the room where it shattered into a thousand tiny stars.

  He pressed a button on the intercom and ordered, ‘Now.’

  Almost before he finished, the door swung open, and a small man with a lopsided mouth shuffled into the room. He didn’t say a word, just stood there, his hands clasped behind him.

  ‘Salazaar.’

  As though awakened, the man’s head came up.

  ‘Bring the scientist to me.’

  ‘I’m…’ He might have said ‘afraid’ but paused because if he had, Ottomon would have been sure to make him afraid. ‘The scientist has disappeared.’

  The tycoon made a loud clicking noise with his mouth which turned down as if he’d tasted something unpalatable.

  ‘He left his house and drove to Fisherman’s Quay and then… vanished.’

  ‘What’s happening? Why is everyone disappearing? Are you all going crazy?’

  ‘He has disappeared,’ Salazaar insisted. ‘The dictionary meaning of disappeared is “ceased to be visible”. That’s what has happened.’

  He glared at him, shaking his head, and considered pouring another whisky, but his throat still burned. ‘I don’t care if he has disappeared. I want him here now. Why hasn’t he found the woman?’

  Even the secret of the drawing could wait until they located Solo. If she told the wrong people about the portrait, it would bring the State down on him, and all his billions wouldn’t save him.

  ‘I understand the scientist is making progress in that area,’ Salazaar said.

  ‘How?’

  Under his breath, Salazaar rehearsed his lines. He’d survived by agreeing to everything his boss asked without ever appearing to agree.

  ‘He has accessed the microchip security bank and extricated the serial code of her chip. He will use a mobile scanner they all carry at Evolution Industries to track her movements.’

  ‘Jesus!’ He kicked a chair. ‘I thought he’d have located her by now.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What do we know about this Skarab apart from his scientific CV? What’s his motive for stalling me?’

  Unsure how to answer, Salazaar hesitated.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Apart from his work, he cares for his mother at home.’

  ‘I’m not interested in their domestic arrangements.’

  Salazaar persisted. ‘He also carries out medical procedures on her at his house, which is kitted out like a minor operating theatre.’

  ‘Is she still mobile?’

  ‘Yes, she often leaves the house at night, sometimes returning late.’

  ‘What do you make of him?’

  Salazaar didn’t offer opinions as the wrong one could come back to bite him. ‘Don’t trust him,’ he replied, knowing his boss trusted no one.

  ‘And your reason?’

  ‘He’s a scientist and will try to use you for his own ends. He’ll say one thing and think another.’

  He liked the servant. Thought as he did. ‘If the scientist doesn’t do what we want, perhaps we should visit his mother. That will concentrate his mind.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  By the time the taxi dropped him back at the parking lot, it was dark. Passing the alley, Headlock heard scuffling noises and experienced a sense of déjà vu. Not again. He intended to ignore it, but on second thoughts if it helped Becky in any way he must.

  The alley’s brooding darkness took on a presence of its own. Visibility was only a matter of feet, and he shuffled forward, one faltering step at a time. Anything could be here, and he wouldn’t see it until he was on it. Another noise and he flattened himself against the brick wall and paused. Whoever else was here might hear his breathing. He held his breath for so long his lungs were bursting, and the pounding in his chest increased as his heartbeat raced. As he approached the bend in the alley, there was another noise. A scratching which grew louder.

  Someone’s here.

  The breathing was so loud they had to be close. He stretched out a hand, feeling his way along the wall, expecting a threat to his life. Heart pounding, mouth dry, his body tensed for violent action.

  Easy now.

  A few steps and he touched something. His hand retracted as if it had been stung, but he tried again, and it seemed like flesh. In the dark, he made out only the white of her face, her eyes and mouth like dark holes, resembling a prehistoric mask.

  ‘Oh, no, it’s you,’ Solo gasped and pulled away from him, but he put his arms around her, drawing her closer.

  ‘We—’

  ‘Sssh.’ She put a finger to his lips and whispered. ‘He’s here. Be careful.’

  He peered around, attempting to pierce the gloom. ‘Not anymore.’

  As if she’d been holding her breath for an eternity, she exhaled and relaxed into his arms.

  ‘Let’s go.’ He took her trembling hand and led her out of the alley. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘You must have seen him?’ She explained she�
�d followed the suspected attacker.

  ‘No one came past me, I’m sure of that,’ he said with an emphatic shake of his head.

  ‘Not imagining it. His car’s over there. Why would he leave it here? What’s he up to?’

  She shivered in the cool air, and he suggested, ‘Let’s get a coffee to warm you up.’

  ‘No.’ She leant on him. ‘We’ll go to my car. Don’t want to miss him if he returns.’ She led the way to a red open-top Chevrolet, thinking if the StatPol turned up, they would at least have a chance of escaping.

  ‘Impressive car,’ he observed. ‘In great shape, too.’ The last time he’d seen one was in Havana on a visit to Cuba for a wrestling tournament.

  ‘Should be,’ she retorted. ‘Less than a thousand on the clock. Only bought it a couple of months ago.’

  ‘You’re taking a chance leaving it open around here.’

  ‘This is a safe zone.’ She shook her head as though thinking him stupid. ‘No one would risk being erased for a car.’

  As he slipped into the passenger seat, she squeezed in behind the wheel. ‘Don’t be expecting any back-seat bingo,’ she said with a coy smile.

  From the back, she pulled over a jacket and wrapped it around her, rubbing her cheek on the fur. ‘It’s real sable. What’s the point of being successful if you can’t have the best?’

  ‘Haven’t seen one of these for some time.’ He touched the dashboard. ‘They don’t make them like this nowadays.’

  Unsure whether he was joking, she squinted at him. ‘Is my purse there?’

  ‘Where?’ He patted the seat around him.

  ‘It’ll be on the floor under your feet.’

  He found a silver bag on the floor and handed it to her, and she thanked him with a relieved smile. Extracting the pouch, she pulled out the vial, flicking the top open with her thumbnail. ‘Like some?’ she offered. ‘Should count yourself lucky to be here with the No.1 billboard model. Lots of guys would give anything for the chance.’ She bent her head and put the vial to her nostril and inhaled and repeated the action on the other.