by Lou Paduano
“Something is here, Loren,” he said, quietly. His words were carefully chosen but Loren could hear what was behind them. Concern. Even fear. Things he never heard from either of his two companions before that evening. “It is no coincidence a god like Anteros was brazen enough to take to the streets at this exact moment. Someone’s here. Three murders and we knew nothing of them. Someone is playing a quiet game. And a deadly one. She is not ready. Soriya. She is not ready for what is coming. Especially now.”
Loren peered back to the double doors then back to Mentor. “She was closer to Vlad than she said, wasn’t she?”
“Another connection. I’ve tried to keep her from them.”
Loren mockingly let out a laugh. “Keep her isolated, you mean. Keep her safe from pain and loss. True grief. Great decision.”
“Her responsibility outweighs needs,” Mentor shot back. “It is about more than our lives. She will learn that much in time.”
“When you deem it appropriate to learn, of course. She isn’t your kid.”
“She isn’t yours either.”
The words sat out there though neither wanted to hear them. There was enough for one night. Three murders. Plenty to digest and ruminate without further antagonizing allies. Mentor held out the image of the sign scrawled on the floor of the warehouse office where Vladimir Luchik was found. Loren waved it back.
“Keep it. Plenty of copies sitting back at the station.”
Mentor nodded and started to back away.
“Before you do your creepy fading into shadows thing just level with me, Mentor. Do you know what this is? How she can stop it? How we can stop it?”
“No.” It hurt to hear but Loren sensed the honesty behind it. “Not yet. But I will.”
Loren turned and Mentor was gone. He called out to the darkness that seemed thicker in the hallway.
“And I get to what? Wait for you?”
“No,” a distant voice replied through the dark.
“Then what?” Loren yelled.
The sound was barely audible but Loren heard the message loud and clear. The fear behind each word was palpable and it said more about the threat than Loren thought Mentor meant to share. It said it was going to get worse long before the end. All with three simple words whispered in the dark.
“Keep her safe.”
Chapter Thirteen
The night dragged on, with people lost in revelry or home in their beds. There were no malicious thoughts that clouded their minds, no malicious intents but one. In a darkened apartment living room he stood, a shadow among shadows. His hands delicately ran along the south wall of the room. His fingertips were dipped in blood and deep reds covered the standard off-white paint throughout the small domicile. His thoughts were racing but he kept his motions slow and deliberate, afraid of his hands outpacing his intentions.
His time was near.
Three had fallen. His fingers reminded him of that every moment. While his left hand remained mangled with crooked fingers and missing nails, his right glimmered in the darkness. They were the fingers of a painter and he used them well in his own style. However, they were not his own fingers. They were a gift of the man in the bar. The man with an aura around him that called out to be taken. In the right place at the exact moment he needed him. The pieces were lining up, placed perfectly for him as if by some grand design. Three pieces in place and the fourth an inevitability.
Another must die.
A low groan escaped him. Eyes, one not his own, peered from under the black overcoat that shrouded his withered frame. Underneath, muscle and sinew were all that covered him and small streams of blood carried along capillaries spilled out among them. He was not whole yet. More was needed before the end. However, it was not yet time for the final piece so another had to be taken. Another sacrifice to save the city he held so dear.
He took a small capillary from his side and squeezed. It burst open and another stream of blood ran free. His mangled hand caught it, painting his fingers in crimson, the only color the shadow knew. His makeshift brush continued the large circle upon the edifice of the apartment until it reached the base in a large sweeping motion. His adopted fingers joined his own in the center to finish the image. Already the blood dried, hardening against the thin layer of plaster and paint. From crimson, it ran darker, as if it was decaying before his eyes.
It was done.
The shadow admired his creation with a vision not completely his own. Perfection stretched before him, a masterpiece ready to unlock the secrets of the city. It was only part of the equation. The sacrifice was the other.
So he waited.
The time was fast approaching. His time.
Standing across from the door of the apartment, the shadow that was once a man waited in the darkness for his sacrifice. There was nothing to stop him. There was no one who could. Every piece stretched out before his eyes like a perfect symphony. The darkness was his ally and their enemy. He used it like a musical instrument to play his song across the blood-filled streets of the city. As he bled for the city so long ago, now the citizens of Portents would follow.
A lipless smile stretched across his face. The tearing and rending of muscle caused more blood to flow freely down his cheeks, but he did not care. Time was on his side although he wanted his prize so desperately. He felt it in the air, he heard it in the noise that ran through the city streets. Surrounding him were looming towers and speeding cars, and none of them saw—truly saw—what he was creating for them. For himself. He wanted them to see, to witness his return and the greatness it foretold. He wanted it now.
A slow breath silenced the rage of thoughts. He was patient. Standing in the darkness, he waited for the sacrifice, the smile never fading. He knew how the story ended. He wrote the final chapter centuries ago.
Chapter Fourteen
Keep her safe.
Mentor’s words rang strongly through Loren’s thoughts as he pushed the large double doors to the main viewing room of the morgue. The look in the old man’s eyes, the despair he hid so well with every word, frightened Loren. There were always times of shaken confidence, of doubt, but never with Mentor. Never with Soriya either, for that matter, but her slumped shoulders remained when he entered the room.
Loren stood in silence. He remembered when Beth was taken from him, remembered when he saw her body lying on a slab of metal much like Vlad. He spent the night beside her, despite Hady’s declarations. Grief triumphed. A shuffling of feet reminded him of their five-minute deadline. The last thing he wanted was another bout with Hady. Something about that woman scared the hell out of him, which he appreciated telling her every chance he had.
“Soriya,” he began, tossing his not-so-long-lasting flavored stick of gum into the garbage near the entrance. Her hand rose from the side of Vlad’s table. Slowly, she placed a small metallic object down next to Hady’s other instruments that lined the side of the slab. Loren squinted in the darkness to see what it was but could not make it out. Surrounding her were deeper shadows and it took her spinning around on her heels and briskly stepping toward the door to realize they were not shadows at all. It was not darkness in the room surrounding the tables.
It was hair.
“We can go now,” Soriya said, quickly. She held a small, triumphant smile upon her face and the thin silver bracelet in her right hand.
“All right, but if you….” Loren’s vision shifted from the passing Soriya back to the room. Vlad’s body lay completely exposed, hairless. Stammering, Loren continued. “You’re more than okay staying if you…did you…?”
She stopped before him. With her thumb as their guide, she pointed to the door at the far end of the hall. “We should go now.”
The door to Doctor Hady Ronne’s office opened. Loren looked back into the room, nodded in agreement, and the two moved for the door quickly. The coroner stepped into the hall and when they passed, her eyebrow rose.
“All yours, Hady,” Loren called back, refusing to make eye contact wi
th the stumpy coroner. “Pleasure, as always. Get some sleep, though. Does wonders for bedside manner.”
No response came, and none was wanted by the former Portents detective. He looked to Soriya and a fiendish grin passed between them. They heard the double doors push open and the heavy footfalls of Hady enter the room. As they reached the exit, the cantankerous coroner’s words echoed down the long cement hall.
“Where did all this hair come from?”
Outside, the night was brisk, a stiff wind falling low then rising up into them when their feet fell upon the paved walkway. Surrounding the premises of the morgue, a large field of green stretched out to the street. Centered within the field was a large gated fence and within it a playground, a holdover from the Westmore Elementary days. The city attempted to remove it to keep the children away from the death that resided in the former school, but the residents who grew up in the area and raised families to enjoy the playground petitioned against the action so it remained. Fences were erected and all signage pertaining to the occupants of the school were removed to keep curiosities curbed as much as possible. Children from all around were heard laughing and playing while the dead were examined and identified less than a hundred feet away.
No children occupied the large, plastic clubhouse nor the swing sets that surrounded it. Few cars passed them. Soriya hopped the small fence and fell gracefully into the nearest swing. They were alone. Neither spoke, both quietly smirking at the thoughts that must be rummaging through Hady’s head at the sight of a body’s worth of hair. Loren unclasped the gate and stepped within the confines of the playground. He watched the grief fade behind Soriya’s smile. There was still sadness in her eyes, distant and looking out to the city streets that roped around the large field, spreading like vines into and out of downtown. Sadness brought them together at all turns, Loren remembered.
When he spoke, he was leaning along the side of the fence near the swing, Soriya floating back and forth on the small plastic bench. His words were low, the look of contentment he once carried gone. “I am sorry for your friend.”
“Thanks,” she said, plainly. She looked down at her friend and continued to swing through the night air. “Is that what people say to that? Thanks?”
“I never know either,” Loren replied. “I guess they say what they want to say. What they have to say and nothing else.”
She hopped off the swing and joined Loren at the fence. The two rested their palms on the metal bar that ran along the top of the fence.
“We had some laughs. Mentor hated him, or at least the idea of him, so that was a bonus. It felt….” She trailed off, her eyes catching sight of an unseen memory that Loren had no part of, nor did he need to pry. Her lip curled at the fading reflection of days past. “I don’t know. Bottom line, it felt and I needed to feel.”
Loren understood perfectly. After Beth, there was nothing inside, a large cavernous space where his heart had once resided. He filled it as best as he could over the last four years. There was work. There was always work. However, other than the cases that paired him with Soriya, work was as empty as he had become. Crime never ended, it never abated. The futility of it, the scenes filled with more and more Beth’s drowned what remained of his life so that there truly was nothing. Until he found something else. It didn’t matter at first. Booze was easiest but did little for him. Rage worked more often than not. Rage at criminals that earned his ire, rage at colleagues who walked the fine line between patron of the city and the soul suckers who took what they wanted because they wore a badge. Rage helped quite a bit, until the adrenaline passed or the day ended or there was no release. Until it exploded out of him. Until Standish and the fallout. Suspension. Therapy.
And then it was Chicago.
Until Soriya had her something else, her Chicago, to grab onto and never let go, Loren knew there was always the rage to fall back on, though he refused to allow her to follow the path he had fought so hard to change. The case would be release enough. It had to be. He owed it to her for being his small glimmer of light in a sea of shadows over the last four years.
“Something did this to him, Soriya.”
She nodded. “Whoever did this had some serious muscle. He may have barked at the moon in nothing but the fur his mother gave him, but Vlad was good in a fight.”
Loren recalled the five long gashes through the abdomen of Vladimir Luchik. The handprint staring him right in the face, daring the weary detective to find its owner. Where the struggle had begun, Loren had no idea, but where it ended and how quickly the killing stroke came was clear from the images tucked under his right arm in the case file. Although it was clear the weapon used was nothing more than a hand, Loren still doubted the humanity behind the attacker. Something neither Mentor nor Soriya seemed to have in doubt.
“Whoever.” The thought escaped his lips. “Mentor said someone as well. You’re both so sure it’s a person.”
Soriya’s hair shined in the moonlight, her brown eyes glistening. “You’ve always been limited by definitions of humanity, Loren. One thing that should never surprise you is that boiled down to its essence, violence stems from man.”
“Not a very healthy outlook,” he replied, plainly.
“But an accurate one.” She tucked a single strand of hair behind her ear only to have the breeze whip it back in front of her face. Her words were matter-of-fact, so sure of the notions behind them that Loren trusted her instincts completely though he could never believe in them fully. Violence may have solved the world’s problems for centuries, but so did diplomacy and leadership. Over the years, Loren lost sight of that in the dim haze created by the loss of Beth, but not any longer. After the rage, he knew there was more. Compassion trumped cruelty and he wouldn’t flounder again. He smiled, staring out at the city streets.
“I missed this.”
“Is that why you came back?”
Loren shook his head. “Ruiz called. And I was here.”
“Packing,” she answered coldly. No matter what else could be said about Soriya, it was that when a connection was made, no matter how few and far between they were, it was there for life. Strong connections held tight and the idea that Loren could simply leave it behind was tough even for him to see. The sharp words, the distant glares, and their last night in the parking garage helped make it clearer for the dim detective.
“It’s the right move,” he said, trying to sound sure of himself, completely confident that every decision he had made relating to his leaving was sound. Every judgment. Every justification. He knew he fell short of the mark. “Chicago. It’s the right move. I have family there. A new job. I can put it behind me.”
“Can you?”
His head lowered. “No. But I have to try. Don’t I? I didn’t leave you, Soriya. Just this city. What it is.”
“Meaning you’re the same as Ruiz. As the rest. Unwilling to see the city, to know what really goes on in Portents,” she said quietly. Her eyes burned through him. When they met four years earlier she opened his eyes to what she saw plain as day, every day. The true city. The world inside the world. When he stepped through that door, everything changed. There was no going back. The idea that he could turn his back on that stung deeper than any betrayal. It was the acceptance of ignorance.
Loren replied, simply, “Who would be okay knowing that truth?”
“You were.”
He nodded. “For a time, sure. When I thought there was something out there to hunt. To catch for what he or she or it had done to Beth.”
“But you left instead.”
“And did you find it?” Loren shot back, angrily. His words were sharp, bitter against the cold wind that blew through the rag he called a shirt. He was tired of defending his decisions. Tired of feeling his justifications failing him with each accusation. Soriya’s eyes fell away at the question. She knew there was no answer she could give him to satisfy the pain that came with the night Beth fell. Loren nodded at the silence. “Then we don’t need to talk about it
anymore.”
Soriya licked her top lip, deep in thought. “You’re right. You’re right. I have a friend who might be able to help us. Muscle we might need.”
Finally, Loren thought. Something to help the case so he could return to the new life he was attempting to carve for himself. Something to move things forward. He slowly reached for his pocket and the cell phone inside.
“Good. I’ll call Ruiz. Get a car to take us….”
Emptiness replaced the small, lithe frame of Soriya Greystone. Loren called out her name, knowing the futility of the act. The same act as her teacher. Standing alone in the shadow of the morgue, Loren felt like Commissioner Gordon after being handed a lead by Batman. Used. A puppet in a game controlled by anyone and everyone else.
A small fluttering sound beat against the fence rail. Loren reached for it and found a piece of paper with a note scrawled on it in black marker, the same handwriting that accompanied many criminals delivered handily to the Central Precinct. Across the piece of paper, torn from paperwork found within the viewing room of the morgue, was an address.
1252 Glenview. Apartment 12C.
He wanted to turn around and go home. He wanted to call Ruiz and cancel the whole deal. Let him handle it. Let anyone handle it. Mentor and Soriya were more than capable. Hell, Pratchett could probably stumble on a clue or two without even looking. Just not him. Not anymore. Portents stared down at him in the moonlight. He heard the call of the city in every car that raced down the street and in the flicker of every lamp that lined the field. He felt the city in the wind, brisk against the coming summer days. It surrounded him. It challenged his every thought. In that instant, Loren blinked. Keep her safe. He snatched the piece of paper from the fence and tucked it into his pocket.
