by Diann Merit
his path so far. He can see him again. The figure forms his visions. Viscera covers his arms up
to his elbows as he dances around the floor-to-ceiling canvas in front of him. It confirms
everything that he has suspected about the man he fought with in the apartment. This vision
doesn’t feel like the other ones. This vision feels that if he touches something, it will be
affected, that it will change somehow. Of course that isn’t possible . . . but he can feel the blood
sticking to his shoes. He has never been able to feel that before.
The hands are from the last vision, like that poor soul has sucked Anonymous into his
personal pain for a second time. Only there is no body this time. There is no kitchen and no
blender, but there is part of a person. It looks like bones perhaps, or bits of tissue turned into
sponges, and the artist is avidly at work. The killer is using them as paintbrushes. Dancing
over what seems to be a chunk of carcass without a care in the world. Anonymous doesn’t
want to move too close, lest he shatter the vision. Lest somehow, he be seen.
It is something that he has never considered. He has always been able to see them. After
the last case, he is certain that the visions want something for him. They are guiding him
toward something. But he hasn’t the foggiest idea what it can be. Now he is being forced to
consider that perhaps the visions can see him too.
“Just how big is this place?” He imagines that it is as big as the man's ego. What other
explanation could there be? Brandt’s fingers trail over the walls, hoping to trigger a vision of
something that might help him. Normally, they would show up in a place that has seen so
many dead. They normally wouldn’t tend to speak to him, and it is silent. It is almost more
alarming that he isn’t having that pain creeping up the back of his neck, worming its way into
his head. At least if it had been, he would know how to handle it. He would be better prepared
for the string of yellow lights leading him down the hallway.
He would be better prepared for the assault on his nose from the stench that comes with
the lights. Like he has walked through a door that he hasn’t seen. Almost as if he has stepped
into a mirage of some sort. Has he gone for another victim when he has been denied his first?
Since he hasn’t been able to capture Tara in the way that he wants, has he chosen another
route? Is somebody here from before that even?
Anonymous moves carefully, keeping alert. His ears perk up at any small shift in sound
and move ever closer to the sound of music, which is no longer in the distance.
“I told you that you would pay.” Anonymous recognizes the angry voice coming from
the kitchen to belong to Malcolm. Who was he talking to? “I told you that if the authorities
find their way back to us . . . you aren’t careful enough . . . gaudy, showing yourself off . . . you
make the connection too clear.” Disdain drips from his words.
Metal scrapes across the marble countertop and then the sound of a cleaver hits a
chopping block. Anonymous slides around the corner quickly enough to see the head being
freed from Alphonse’s shoulders.
“You made me do this!” Malcolm sobs to the air. He is bent over the counter, cradling the
head in his hands. “Now he’s here and it is all ruined!”
He must have meant himself. He must have meant Anonymous.
Malcolm is distraught. “Oh be quiet!” he shouts behind him as Anonymous moves further
into the room, keeping his steps careful. He is certain that he should be careful given the
number of knives that are hanging around here. Not to mention the large cleaver in his
bloodstained fingers.
Between Malcolm’s sobs he can hear others. They aren’t alone here, as he should have
known. He isn’t able to stop Alphonse’s murder, but he would be able to save whoever else
is being tortured, he promises as he steps into the weak kitchen light.
“It’s over now.”
“No. It’s not,” Malcolm sobs, closing Alphonse’s eyes and moving him to rest on top of
an overturned porcelain bowl as if it were a pedestal. Malcolm runs a crooked finger down
the side of his face, embracing him like he has found a long-lost lover, instead of a man who
was alive moments ago. If only Anonymous hadn’t paused . . . then perhaps he would have
been able to save him too.
Is the price of talent and brains inevitably madness? At least whatever Alphonse had
wanted to become before this life, the brainwashing that he endured over countless months
of torture came full circle. Anonymous can only imagine that he has offered himself up. If
anybody understands what it feels like to be brainwashed, it is Anonymous. Has he been sent
here for a reason? Does Scarlet have another goal in mind? They knew that the visions have
always been triggered by violence in all of its forms. Are they testing him? Perhaps it is to
somehow see that the life that he has been living is wrong. That his master too had no good
intentions for him.
Anonymous has missed two check-ins to be here.
They have been gone from his world for months and he is just supposed to fall back into
line? For too long he has not been asking questions. He has done as asked, always.
“This is all your fault!” Malcolm turns to Anonymous, his lips curling upward into a
sneer. “You big, graceless oaf! They warned me that someone would come, eventually, but
did it have to be somebody so ugly?”
“Hey!” Anonymous scoffs, indignant.
“You’ll make the ugliest statue yet.” Malcolm scrambles over the counter top like a
roach; his spindly body moves quickly. No doubt, he is intent on using that cleaver in his
hands to split open the top of Anonymous’ head. He rolls out of the way just in time, shoulders
slamming into the doorframe as Malcolm rushes toward him again. His rage is making him
sloppy, careless. Anonymous lifts his leg to kick him in the sternum. Malcolm flies backward,
hitting the hallway wall. He snuffs and takes off toward the far room where the other body
must be and Anonymous gives chase.
It seems as if Malcolm is intent on tying up as many loose ends as he can manage from
the way he rips open the door holding back the female screams and tears inside. Must not
want to have anybody left to speak of him; no doubt he wanted the whole thing to look like
Alphonse had been behind it the whole time. He wanted to make it look like the girl had
escaped and killed Alphonse; Anonymous is sure of it.
Anonymous isn’t going to let that happen. This girl is going to get out of here as
unscathed as he can manage. Anonymous tackles Malcolm and the bastard bites a chunk out
of his shoulder, and he feels a stabbing pain in his thigh; Malcolm takes off again.
“Argh!” Anonymous growls, clenching his teeth and pulling the pointed end of a
paintbrush from his thigh. The brunette is still tucked away safely behind him for the
moment. He can see that blood thirsty look on the bastard’s face. As much as he wishes that
he could have reveled in the small victory, that brush has gotten a lot further into the meat
of his thigh than he would care to admit.
Anonymous takes suit anyway, limping after him, and for a moment he almost forgets
the girl that he has barely managed to save. As long as she is still
tucked away back there, she
has a chance of getting herself free. If not, he will have to come for her later.
By the time Anonymous reaches the living room, there is no sign of Malcolm.
Anonymous goes back for the girl and helps to free her.
“I’ve been here for days . . . the things he did . . . the . . .” Her speech is broken and she
keeps dissolving into tears. He doesn’t think that he’s going to get any useful information
about her. Scarlet is going to have to come and collect her. He can’t take her back to his hotel
room where Tara is. He certainly can’t have them talking to each other.
Anonymous wraps her in the cleanest tarp that he can find. Nothing that he can say
would be of any comfort to the girl. Not with whatever she has been through.
“Somebody will be here to collect you,” he grumbles and moves for the phone in his
pocket to check in with Bailey; they aren’t going to be the slightest bit happy that he let
Malcolm slip away when he had hands on him. Not happy at all.
7
isgruntled that he failed, Anonymous makes his way back to the hotel room. He
needs to tend to the wound in his leg. In fact, he’s moderately surprised that nobody
D stops him along the way to see why he is limping and leaving a trail of blood.
Perhaps Malcolm will follow it back to him.
Anonymous hasn't found a single trace of him around the building. It is like he vanished.
The phone rings in his pocket and he expects it to be Bailey with some news about how
he has further failed Scarlet. He’s certain that this test he did not pass is going to end in his
deactivation. It still has the same effect on him as boogeyman stories have on children. He
doesn’t want to know the process involved in deactivation. Would it mean that his brain is
fried? Would he be ended? Would they re-wipe his brain and put him back into the life that
he was destined for before they recruited him?
Instead, Hayley is on the other end of the line. She speaks more quickly than he has
heard before.
"There have been deaths here, Anonymous."
Well, of course, there have been. It is a company that deals in death. It might as well be
the tagline.
"What?" This news couldn't be coming at a worse time. He is supposed to be reporting
in now to make sure the brunette is collected before the police arrived. And he needs to
report what to do with Tara. He can’t focus on people he knows nothing about when he is
presently responsible for the lives of other people.
"No Anonymous, other agents. Like yourself," Hayley whispers.
He is sure that things like that have happened a few times over the years. He is sure that
given their high risk profession they can’t always win. It doesn’t matter how much they train
or for how long, so why is she bothering him with this information now?
"And?"
"Four in three months, Anonymous. That's why they were not contacting you.
Something is changing in the structure of Scarlet. Something big. This is a test, like you
thought . . . but I’m not so certain that they want you to pass."
She is whispering. Why is she whispering?
"Where are you?"
"Headquarters. I slipped away but I'm going to be gone for a while; take care of Alyssa
for me, will you?"
"You can't disappear on her like that, not again." It is so much more than the fact that he
didn’t want to be the one responsible for Alyssa. All that Alyssa wants is a mother, and even
when the person who gave birth to her has been returned, she still hasn’t gotten one. If
Hayley abandons her now, then all hope of her ever having one would be lost.
"She has you now. You'll take care of her." The words are heavy between them. They
aren’t all that far apart in age, Hayley is only his senior by ten years or so, but he isn’t ready
for the full-time responsibility of caring for another person while he is actively trying to put
himself back together. This is another instance where Alyssa won’t be getting what she
wants. Not from him at least.
"I don't want to take care of her." Anonymous speaks too quickly and pauses, regretting
the word choice.
"You're missing the point. Listen, just get out of there. Promise that we will talk about
this before you make any dumbass choices"
A year ago he had been all alone. A year ago he had nobody to worry about but himself.
Now there are too many moving parts that he is supposed to be taking care of. He hasn’t
wanted it; he still doesn’t want it. This forced family isn’t something that he is going to accept,
and it is leaving him with more questions than he likes. Now, whatever it is that she is
implying is just another thing that needs to be sorted out.
"If I don’t go now, I'm afraid of what will happen to me, Brandt. I found my own file you
see . . . they planted me with Alyssa's father. It was apparently a test for me all along and they
wrote me off. I failed so they let that monster . . . her voice is thick from holding back her
heated tears. “It’s just the tip of the iceberg. I was never supposed to return. I was never
supposed to make it out of there alive. The plans that they have for me now . . . I have to
disappear and fast.”
"It’s not like I can stop you," Anonymous finally answers.
"I thought you would understand . . ."
On some level he does, perhaps, but on another level he doesn’t. Alyssa didn't deserve
to lose her mother twice. Then again, Hayley deserved answers. He is having trouble
wrapping his head around the idea that somehow this has all been done on purpose. How
could Scarlet be a company for the betterment of people when it allows its own employees-
-the network of people who literally sacrifice their identities--to have such horrible things
happen to them.
"Don't be upset if she can't forgive you for this one," Brandt finally sighs. He is choosing
to remove himself from the situation. He can’t focus on her. He wants to know what she has
found in her personal file. If given the opportunity, he absolutely would have been looking
through his own file. He wants to know where she thinks she is going to run off to. He has to
get Tara squared away. Anonymous is being pulled in more directions than he knows how to
handle. He has to wrap this case up or he will find out exactly what Hayley meant because
then they will be in the same situation.
The elevator is moving too slowly; he is bleeding all over the carpet to the soft tunes of
the elevator music. If he were a fly on the wall, what a sight that would be, limping his way
down the hallway only to find his door kicked in like Tara’s apartment the other day.
Anonymous wrinkles his nose, seconds away from snarling. That bastard doesn’t know when
to quit, does he? This is a personal affront. Either Scarlet is keeping things from him on
purpose or he is losing his edge.
It takes a lot for Anonymous to feel his temper rising. He is offended that this man has
come into his personal space. He is offended that, somehow, he has been careless enough to
allow it to happen. He knows that Tara is going to be gone before he turns the corner. He
knows that it is going to be insult added to injury. Clear signs of a struggle are all over the
room. Good for her. At least this time she hasn’t allowed herself
to be caught off guard. At
least this time she has tried to defend herself. There might be hope for her yet, if she is still
alive when he finds her.
Above the bed a sign is painted in large dark letters. He assumes that it is written in
blood, and the invitation says one simple word ‘come,’ and a piece of paper is tented on top
of the rumpled bed sheets with the rest of the invitation.
“A private viewing? How considerate.” His words are nothing but vitriol. It has been
such a long time since he took a case this personally. Even with Alyssa, in the beginning
stages of knowing her, Anonymous has been able to remain impartial. What is it about this
guy that got under his skin?
It isn’t like he could refuse the invitation; he has to go.
Anonymous is as prepared as he ever will be.
He has been inside this art gallery enough to be familiar with it, but this time it is making
the small hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Every muscle is tense as he moves
through that same back entrance he used before. He is sure that the front door is left
unlocked for him, but he isn’t going to totally play into what Malcolm wants.
It all seems to be the way that he left it days ago, but so much quieter. The room feels
colder, slowing his angry heartbeat. As he gets to the main showroom, he sees that all the
previous exhibits have been pushed aside. All the statues and other works are crammed
against the sides of the walls, haphazard and jutting into one another to make room for what
no doubt is the ‘main event.’
Tara’s poor body has been suspended from the metal piping in the open ceiling. Her
figure is mutilated and her face is no longer attached to her skull. Anonymous doesn’t want
to know where it is, or what it is that has been crudely stitched over the top of her eyes as a
replacement. She is slashed across the chest and stomach. The drawing that Malcolm made
in Tara’s bedroom has been completed in vivid reality.
It is hard to keep his stomach from turning.
A life shown in this manner is not only cruel. It is an abomination.
How could this man have been born so wrong? Has he always been this way?
