by Diann Merit
he private jet lands without event. He has been given his alias as usual as well as
tickets to a local art gallery opening. According to all the documents, the prominent
T members of society are going to be there as well as the chief of police. If it weren’t
for all of the murders, it would have been a pretty nice little gig. Private planes and
cars, all expenses paid. While getting all dressed up and attending nice events isn’t really his
thing, it is what is being asked of him, so he is going to put on the suit, and go make nice with
all of the socialites.
“Just kill the bastard and get home to Alyssa,” Hayley’s voice filters in through the other
end of the phone as he gets dressed. Brandt, or Anonymous, as he is going to have to continue
being for tonight, resents the fact that she is implying there might be something going on
between him and her daughter.
“Why don’t you get home to Alyssa?” he says. It has been a while since they spoke last.
Hayley had been attempting to get her job back as a trainer with Scarlet, but her sudden
reappearance isn’t being received very warmly. They had already written her off as dead,
and hadn’t even known that she had a daughter. They were heavily implying that if she had
allowed herself to be taken hostage for such a long time that perhaps she is too weak to be
allowed to come back. That her skills must not be what they were. They had given her credit
for trying, but were so busy attempting to get her to jump through every hoop imaginable to
get even a spot back. So, she is stuck at a dispatch desk.
It is how he learned that apparently, they have a lot less influence than he originally
thought. Brandt had always looked to Bailey, his handler and personal dispatcher, as
something of a supervisor. He had thought that she was so much more than a point of
contact—another fact to add to the long list of items that weren’t at all what he had thought
they were.
“I want nothing more than to get home to her, Anonymous, but we both know that isn’t
possible.”
Brandt isn’t entirely certain that he agrees with that statement. In his opinion, Hayley is
running scared of her own daughter. It isn’t like she had been there to see her grow up, or
even knew anything about the person that she had become. They had almost nothing to talk
about other than shared trauma, and neither one was willing to touch that subject. What had
seemed so good when they first found each other, was now as distant as when Hayley had
been ‘dead.’
“If you’re not going to talk to her,” Brandt hisses, lowering his voice so that nobody
around him can hear, “Then at least get back into hacking those computers to find more
about how I came to work for Scarlett.”
“Like it’s just so easy.”
“You lied to me too, you know, Hayley. You said that you had a lot more information
about my past than you do.” He could hear her sighing. She had told him his name, and he
had been able to extrapolate where he had been born, but all of his birth records and school
files had been totally redacted. It was almost like he never existed. “I’m here.”
“Go get ‘em soldier,” Hayley offers supportively as the line goes silent.
Brandt shuts the phone and tucks it away in his pocket. It is frustrating that he has
almost nothing to go off of other than his intuition as he hands his pass to the man at the
door. Wordless music is thumping through the large space. Makeshift triangular walls have
been placed at various points around the room to display the paintings. A few spaces hold
what are likely supposed to be statues.
“The fuck?” he mutters to himself, pulling his suit coat back on properly as he adjusts
the fit of his sleeve cuffs. Nothing that he sees looks like any off brand of art that he has ever
seen. Everything seems to have a smell that either everybody is agreeing to ignore or simply
doesn’t smell. A subtle iron twang grows stronger the closer he ventures to any painting. The
canvas looks like skin stretched over boards and fastened with nails. Tattoos and moles are
painted on and then various scenes of violence are painted on top of that.
He has to give it to the man. It looks very realistic. He has seen a lot of skin, and a lot of
violence, and this ‘artist,’ whoever he is, must have been through something at some point in
his life. No imagination is that vivid without provocation.
Each person he passes seems to be muttering something or other about how much
things are going to cost, and when the artist is going to make himself known. Brandt doesn’t
want to question how Scarlet has connected the gallery openings and the murders. He has to
imagine that these scenes, what is depicted, must match the various crime scenes.
Perhaps he is a fan.
Perhaps he knows a little something too much.
Either way, Anonymous is determined to figure it out, which means that he is going to
have to meet the artist, and on Scarlet’s credit card, money is really no object. Pulling himself
closer, he pretends to have developed an interest in a randomly chosen piece, and within
minutes, his interest attracts the gallery show person.
"Stunning isn't it?"
"It is certainly hard to look away from." Something about the sight in front of him is too
familiar. It is more than the macabre theme of the works, but he has never seen a red quite
like that in a paint before. It is something familiar to him; he can’t quite place it -
Screams. Louder and the sight of a scantily clad girl running as fast as she can into a dead-
end hallway. A low giggle of joy as a thin figure all but prances after her. Knowing full well that
she is cornered, the girl lifts her arms over her face in an effort to shield herself but to no avail.
The blade swishes past so quickly it is a blur, and more than the normal fog his visions tend to
be presented in. The figure slashes again, his laughter ringing inside of Anonymous’ head louder
and louder until her screams die out and she is nothing but a lump on the floor. The figure lifts
a blood-covered hand to slide his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He squats on top of he; his
blade is ready and lifted over his head. It is more than a murder; he is playing with her.
Cold swashes over his person as Anonymous realizes that the well-dressed man beside
him is still speaking. This is blood, not paint. He is sure of it. He couldn't even hope to guess
what the other bits clinging to the canvas could possibly be, but it certainly isn't acquired in
any art shop that he has heard of. Horrified and struggling to contain himself, he takes a step
back, hoping to look like he's just taking the whole thing in, pensive in the way he has seen
others contemplating the various works. In reality, he's working to memorize the figure
beside him; nobody has seen the artist yet but now that is exactly what Brandt has to do.
Even if the artist himself isn't the murderer, he would certainly have a damn good idea who
is.
“I would love to purchase this piece here, but I would like to speak with the creator
about his inspiration,” Anonymous starts, laying it on thick “Is he around to let me pick his
brain? I’m willing to pay for his time, of course.”
“Oh, he would be most thrilled to hear you say that. Unfortunately, he is indisposed
>
tonight. However, I would be happy to answer any questions you have about the genius
behind the works. He and I are intimately acquainted. ”
“I see.” Anonymous forces disappointment into his tone. “And you are?”
“Alphonse.” He extends a heavily ringed finger towards Anonymous. “Pleasure, and you
are?”
Anonymous buys a little time by pulling the hand closer to examine the rings more
carefully. “I’ve never seen anything quite like this. What is this made from?”
“Bone.” Alphonse speaks plainly with a smile curling the corners of his lips upward.
“Human bone.”
At first, Brandt thinks that it is a joke, but it becomes rapidly apparent that isn’t the case.
“I see . . . how rare a find.”
“Oh no, I made it myself. Like I told you, Malcolm and I are close, we work only in found
materials, and everything you see around you is purely organic, see? Touch this . . . it’s real
hair,” Alphonse reaches out to lovingly curl around his finger a tuft protruding from one of
the paintings . "I'm not sure if he's my muse, or if I'm his." It’s easy to see the adoration in his
eyes, and Anonymous is fairly certainly that it has nothing to do with the artwork but the
person who created it.
"How long have you two been together?"
"Oh,” Alphonse sighs, folding his arms across his chest. “We aren't a couple. Not in the
way that you mean anyway. He helped me discover my purpose, something for which I will
be forever grateful. If he hadn't come into my life and shown me the light . . ." he trails off, “I
used to be just a critic, but having seen behind the curtain . . . there isn’t anything like
watching the creative process unfold.”
"Art is your purpose?"
"Something like that." Alphonse pauses; he drops his arms and casually folds his hands
in front of his person. "I suppose in some way art is the purpose of all of us, is it not?
Otherwise we wouldn't be standing here together tonight."
It isn't exactly the truth, but Anonymous supposes that is as good a way to phrase it as
any.
"Do excuse me sir,” Alphonse reaches out to lightly touch Anonymous’ arm, a gesture to
excuse himself. “I see another question written on someone’s face. Please, place your bid in
the mouth of the skull on the table with all pertinent contact info. Lovely to meet you."
Alphonse rushes away to play the dutiful host, and Anonymous mentally moves him to
the top of the list of people to keep an eye on.
Anonymous is going to have to at least follow him home tonight and will probably have
to make another stop back here after the exhibit closes. He needs to send records to Scarlet;
no doubt they are going to give him the go ahead to take samples to match the poor souls
who have been used as paint back to the amassed compilation of case files.
Then, he will have to locate this artist to get as much information on him as possible.
Anonymous has a sinking suspicion that this Alphonse is either in on all of it, or brainwashed,
or both.
At least now he has a lead, a direction to go on. He is going to have to follow his gut on
this one, and he is going to have to disregard what Scarlet wants. The paperwork and the
required time would be too much. His own approach would be a much faster route.
3
’ve found something, and you’re not going to like it.”
Anonymous is not in the mood to handle whatever bad news Alyssa is about to spout
“I off. He has to focus on work. As grateful as he is that she has been spending her time
looking into every lead for him, this is not the time. He has to focus on work now.
“Well given that I rarely like anything that you have to say, I’m not too concerned about it,”
Anonymous grumbles, attempting to wind his way through the dark back streets to the art
gallery once more now that it is dark. He doesn’t want to be seen.
“Scarlet has done more than just erase your memories; they have implanted false ones
too!” Alyssa says.
That gets his attention. “What does that mean?
“It means that all of those memories you’ve been having--or think you’ve been having
come back to you--might not even be real!”
“How is that possible?”
“I don’t know. Mom is still looking into it.”
“That’s what I need right now, another distraction.”
“Are you getting any closer to finding out who the real killer is?”
“No. and I’ve been tailing this Alphonse for days now; I have no idea why Scarlet is
refusing to give me the green light to end this bastard.”
“Well . . . I guess you need to press them a little more.”
It is strange to hear that coming from her mouth; she isn’t normally an advocate of
violence. “I think I’m a bad influence on you.”
“Well, think of it this way; if it hadn't been you, then it would have been my mother.”
The line is silent for a moment, “Do you think that maybe I would have been like you? If she
hadn’t gotten kidnapped? I mean if my father hadn’t tried to kill her and didn’t keep her
locked in an attic for so many years?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you think that I would have been working for Scarlet, too?” She sounds almost
hopeful, like she wants to belong to some bigger purpose.
“You would have wanted to work for these assholes?”
“I mean—I don’t know . . .”
Brandt cuts her off forcefully “You want to have your memories stolen from you? Your
past? All of your sense of self? You want to have your identity ripped away from you? Or
perhaps it's the murders. You want to be killing people?”
"That's not what I meant and you know it!"
"I don’t have time for this right now, Alyssa"
"Fine."
She’s hurt. He knows that she is, but he can’t afford to coddle her. Certainly not when he
hasn’t asked for her help in the first place.
"Don't be like that. If you can’t find out exactly what they implanted, then this
information doesn't do us any good." An olive branch extends in her direction. He would
rather focus on that than attempt to bring her into the case and rationalize Scarlet's actions
with her.
"Look, I'm hoping that we can match the real memories to your visions somehow . . .
those can't be fake. Scarlet seems to still be pretty worried about them, which has to mean
that they don't even know the cause and they just want them to stop."
Since the time he met Alyssa, he hasn’t been given an overabundance of visions to go off
of. He has been attempting to work on his meditation, to try to combine them with the tiny
slivers of information that he has been given. He has only managed to actually bring
something about twice, and each time it lasted only for a moment.
There is still no headway as to why they are happening to him, and if that is why Scarlet
chose him in the first place. He can’t imagine because Scarlet seems so hell bent on stopping
them. "Maybe."
"We have to find a way to use them."
"It's not like I have them on purpose, Alyssa."
"I know that "
"I'm here. I have to go."
In irritation, Anonymous snaps the phone shut. Why is it always raining? He has waited
until nightfall to return to the
gallery. He has snooping to do. There is information to be found
here, and he knows it. He loops around the block once to see if he can locate a better entrance
than the front, and he settles on one in the back.
He climbs up the fire escape ladder and works the window open, allowing himself to go
inside. It’s somehow a lot creepier at night. Even absent those carefully placed lights of
yellow and red, it is ominous. He feels as if those statues are going to come to life at any given
moment. It is enough to make his skin crawl. Anonymous moves silently and slowly through
the exhibits. He takes careful pictures of each one, making sure to document every tattoo and
skin blemish. All things he needs to send to Scarlet so they can attempt to bridge the gaps
between what he is seeing and what they think is happening.
Anonymous runs his fingers along the paintings, and his stomach flops. He knows then
that they are in fact from humans, and not freely given. He can feel the pain bleeding into his
fingers. He feels the terror that filled each of their last moments before they were flayed to
make these canvases, and in that moment of distraction, they appear to him. One after
another, they fill the room. Spectral bodies made of gray wisps of smoke stand in front of
their disrupted resting place. He is forced to walk from body to body as he documents them,
or what is left of them.
First, a girl hangs by one wrist in a bathtub. The water pours onto skin so blistered away
that it is peeling from her person. She must have been nearly boiled alive. Her glassy eyes
are wide and unblinking. She seems to stare through him as he walks around, but he can hear
her anguished screams as she tries in vain to block the water or to pull away, thrashing
around in a bathtub full of broken glass shards.
Second, a man is strapped to a kitchen counter, his eyes wide and frozen in terror as his
left hand is stuck inside of a blender; his screams are silent. The amount of pain passes the
point of his being able to vocalize further as he loses what seems to be the second limb of the
day. His other arm is nothing but a bloody stump as he tries over and over to yank free.
