Now to open the window, a task that always gave him chills. If there was an alarm installed here, he was screwed. He might escape, but his actions had a way of catching up with him. Bad deeds always did, he’d learned recently.
Jamal had been jailed two times for crimes he hadn’t committed. That’s another harsh truth of the streets—sometimes you escaped things you were guilty of, but were punished for things you weren’t. It felt unfair. But Jamal had to accept that there was poetic justice in being made to feel wronged, just like how his victims had.
He took a small pen torch from his pocket. After filling his lungs with a deep breath, he opened the window and dived into the house in one motion. With the same fluidity, he directed the light beam from his pen torch and checked the window’s frame. No alarm box.
Thank Jesus.
He got up and looked around. A worktable sat beside the now-useless window. Although he was fortunate enough to land at this particular spot—because technically what he had come to steal should be there—he didn’t feel so lucky, because the thing wasn’t there. Instead, he found a nightmare—a photograph hanging from the wall above the table. It was a photo of two men in a fishing boat, and in it, a big man had his arm over another man’s shoulder. Jamal knew the other man as Taylor Roth, New York City’s mayor.
Jamal’s stomach knotted in terror. What had he gotten himself into?
He spent a minute collecting himself, and then crept to a closed door of the room and pressed his ear against it. No sound. He opened it and came across a corridor which was lit by a lone light over the door. He crouched and moved quickly to its end.
On his left was a door from which a monstrous rumbling seeped into the corridor. Must be an elephant snoring. Jamal’s right descended into a flight of stairs, which he took three at a time, believing he’d reduce the odds of encountering a squeaky step by two-thirds.
Once down in the living room, he scanned it and spotted his target on a dining table at the far side of the room. He strode to it, removing his backpack. There was a glass beside the target, half-empty. He slowly lifted the object from the dining table, put it in the bag, and fastened the pack on again. Feeling content that the mission was a success, he swiveled on his feet. But when he did, the bag caught the glass and it crashed down on the floor. In the quiet house, the sound was deafening.
Fuck!
He sprinted to the point of entry, covering two steps at a time. When he turned around at the top of the stairs, he saw a man emerge. He was in his robe and was a foot taller than Jamal.
As soon as he saw Jamal, he lurched back into his room. “You little shit.”
He was going for his goddamn shooter.
Jamal ran inside and clambered through the window he’d broken, all the while praying it wouldn’t be a shotgun.
Jamal got partially out of the window, his foot scrabbling through the air to find the rickety awning. Then the man appeared in the doorway, with a black pistol.
“Stop right there, you pussy!”
Jamal loosened his arms and let go of the windowsill. He stood on the awning, but it gave way. He fell through and crashed on the dumpster’s lid, which caved in.
Jamal swam out of the garbage and jumped, tipping the dumpster to its side and spilling its contents onto the lawn.
“Don’t move, motherfucker!” said the man, from the window. “I swear to god, I will shoot if you run.”
But run was what Jamal did. He wasn’t going back to the slammer. He decided to beeline to the shrubbery, which he had used as a cover when he’d entered the property. He crisscrossed while he dashed, hoping that it would stop the madman from fulfilling his promise.
How wrong was he.
An explosion shattered the silence of the night, making Jamal run faster. Adrenaline kicked in—breathing turned shallow, time slowed, peripheral vision darkened while everything in the center became crystal clear. In spite of blood beating inside his ears, he heard two more loud bangs before he finally reached the bushes.
Just as he came out on the other side, he heard the fourth shot and something whizzed past his head, cutting his temple. He dived to the ground, landing on his crotch. Grunting in pain, he crawled to a black car idling on the street. The back door swung open and he scrambled in.
“Go, go, go,” Jamal shouted, and the car shot forward.
Three minutes later, the car turned onto an empty street. Jamal hadn’t stopped sweating, his body still in fight or flight mode.
The car stopped under a tree.
“Are you all right?” The driver turned around. “What the… why are you crying?”
“I-I think… I’m shot.”
Jamal touched his temple with his cold, trembling fingers. It felt wet and sticky. And it burned. It’s blood! He felt his head spin and prayed he wouldn’t pass out.
“Show me,” the driver said. When Jamal did, he examined the wound.
“No. You aren’t shot.” The driver laughed. “That’s hot sauce. Your face is covered in it. Shit, man, you smell awful.”
“But… but… I think a bullet…”
“That’s your imagination. Don’t watch a lot of TV. It looks like a thorn in the shrubs scratched off a thread of skin. Just a little. No blood.” The driver laughed again.
Jamal nervously joined him. This was his last job and also his wildest. Wow, what a head trip!
The driver’s expression turned serious. “You got the thing, right?”
“I did.” Jamal breathed a sigh of relief and promised himself that he would never steal again.
Chapter 14
February 14, 1997. 04:53 P.M.
Tyrel walked out of Wake County Juvenile Detention Center, shielding his eyes from the sinking sun. His dad’s good ol’ Buick was waiting at the entrance. It didn’t surprise him that Mel, who’d never visited him even once in his six-month stretch, wasn’t leaning on its hood. It was Shane, the boy Tyrel had fallen for. He wasn’t just a crush anymore. They were lovers.
“Welcome back, Ty.” Shane opened the front door and motioned Tyrel into the car, with an exaggerated gesture. “Hop in.”
Tyrel did so, while the courteous Shane walked around the car and got into the driver’s seat. Minutes later, the car climbed the Raleigh Beltline. Tyrel watched the grassland between the lanes roll beside him, feeling lucky to have Shane by his side.
The first time an officer came to the exercise yard and informed Tyrel that he had a visitor, it was almost a week since he’d been incarcerated. He thought it was Mel, but when he walked into a large frenetic visiting hall that smelled of cigarettes and fried chicken, he found Shane at a corner table. Was he there to visit someone else? It didn’t look like it as Shane caught his eyes, smiled, and waved him over.
Tyrel went over and sat with him, confused. Why had Shane, who he’d known only for half a day, gone to the trouble of coming all the way to meet him? So he asked him just that.
“I feel guilty.”
“Guilty? Why?”
“After that incident with those three boys, a cop came to my home, along with Jerry. He asked me if it was really you who had hurt them. Since your mom is rich and can hire the best lawyers, the cop didn’t want to arrest you before verifying the boys’ allegations. I guess he also couldn’t believe that one boy could beat up three. He told me if I lied, I would go to jail.” Shane’s eyes started to well. “I… I said yes.”
“It’s not your fault. You were scared.” Tyrel felt guilty himself. “Actually, I’m the one who should be sorry for putting you through all this.”
“You’re innocent.” Shane held Tyrel’s hand on the table, his beautiful remorseful eyes pleading. “Those boys should have been punished, not you. You just stood up for yourself.” The soft grip on Tyrel’s hand tightened. “And for me.”
“They were assholes.” Tyrel tried to sound nonchalant.
“I know. The beating you gave Jerry cut his tongue.” Shane dabbed the corner of his eyes and giggled. “He either got a bad lis
p or a good Russian accent.”
“Really? Served the prick right.”
“Yeah. Thyrel kickth me on my headth, offither.” Shane laughed.
Tyrel joined in.
When they were done, Shane became serious.
“I promise I’ll never let you feel lonely here.”
And Shane didn’t. He had sent Tyrel more than a hundred letters and visited every week. He brought food, clothes, and comics, among other items. Without Shane, the six months would have felt a lot longer.
“What are you thinking about?” Shane took a hand off the steering wheel and touched Tyrel’s shoulder.
“Just how lucky I am.” Tyrel turned to face him. “By the way, how did Mel let you take the car?”
“Oh. You know the first time I went to your house to ask her about you?”
Tyrel nodded.
“We’ve become good friends since then. I didn’t tell you because you hate her.” Shane shrugged. “Anyway, I went there earlier today and asked if she wanted to come. She said she has some work outta town.”
“No one is in the house?”
Shane shook his head.
“That’s good.” Thank god.
He didn’t want to see her bloated pig face that day. Or any other day of the week.
“She told me you love this car, and that you’d be happy to see it waiting outside to pick you up. So she gave me the keys.”
Tyrel didn’t know what to say. Was the bitch trying something sinister?
“Did she say anything about me?”
“Only good things. But it’s all so… I don’t know… formal? Contrived? She gets antsy whenever I mention your name. Seems like she’s terrified of you.”
Tyrel smiled. So she didn’t tattle, after all. Good. He didn’t want to talk about her anymore.
“Where are we going now?” Tyrel said.
“To celebrate. Duh.”
“Because I’m released?”
“Also because it’s our first Valentine’s Day.” Shane turned the blinker on and took an exit from the I-64.
Apex glowed in the distance like a dying firefly, and dark clouds loomed over it. The windshield was dotted with barely visible precipitation.
“Was prison bad?” Shane kept his gaze fixed on the road. “Did they… you know…”
“Rape me?”
Shane nodded stiffly to the windshield.
“They tried. Three times.”
“Tri-tried?”
“It’s mysterious. Why the hell did it take them three tries to understand they can’t overpower me.” Tyrel snickered. “They couldn’t hold me down long enough to sodomize me. I’m a pretty good fighter, you know. I can beat up ten guys at once.”
“I hate violence.”
“Uh… okay?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“No, no, it’s all right. You’re fine. I hated violence, too.” Tyrel looked down at his calloused mitts. “Until I learned that it helps make you immune to pain.”
He refrained from saying how good it felt to hurt people.
“Do you drink?” Shane said.
“No. Never tried it.”
“I’ve been a proud owner of a fake ID for nine months now. Boy, am I enjoying it. Today I’m gonna teach you how to live.”
Tyrel’s anticipation grew when the Buick crossed a bar named Wild Spirits. They parked in an empty space behind and got down. The drizzle had become mild rain, which was deflected by the wind and struck Tyrel’s cheek.
“Let me introduce you to the greatest invention of mankind.” Shane took Tyrel by the hand and led him inside.
* * *
The rain was in full swing when they exited the bar. They were both hammered. Shane acted like he was immune to the cold weather and got wet intentionally. Tyrel tried to drag him to the comfort of the Buick, but Shane begged that they enjoy the downpour.
Seeing that he was already half-wet, Tyrel said, “Fuck it,” and played with Shane until they were both drenched. They pushed each other, kicked the water, and jumped into puddles, splashing mud onto each other. When they were done fooling around, they drove to Tyrel’s house.
They changed into warm clothes and crashed on Tyrel’s bed. His heart pounded when Shane’s cold fingers touched his bicep. Like a two-legged spider, they walked over his cold skin, traveling over his ear, and finally reached his face. Tyrel sobered up when they pinched his lower lip and pulled it forward. Shane bit it ever so slightly and transformed it into a kiss.
They made love that night. And Tyrel learned that Shane was the one, the only, and the forever.
* * *
Tyrel lifted Shane’s arm from his chest and slipped out of bed. He knelt and recovered Ricky’s skull from under it.
Before Deputy McCune took Tyrel to the police station, he’d requested a moment of privacy with Mel. Tyrel pulled her to the side and warned her to never snoop around in his room. And the shiny black skull had been collecting dust since then. He grabbed a cloth from the floor and rubbed it clean.
It was still dark outside the window when he left the room. His head throbbed and felt like a cinder block as he teetered down the stairs. He turned onto the wide corridor, which led him to the back. He flipped the light switch, unlocked the grilled gate, and stepped into the well-lit backyard.
It wasn’t raining anymore, but the crisp chill air that smelled of wet mud and dead leaves gave him goosebumps. Several buckets stood near the wall and brimmed with rainwater. A dark brown cockroach was drowning in one of the buckets and beating its wings in an attempt to escape.
Tyrel bent down and touched the insect. The smart roach grabbed onto his finger and climbed fast. It tickled him and made him laugh as it ran up his arm, across his shoulder and onto his face. Then it jumped, took flight, and disappeared into the darkness.
Tyrel slogged over the muddy ground, to Sandy’s resting place beside the shed. He hunkered down on the mushy land, leaned back on the shed’s wall, and stretched his legs in front of him. The wet, creamy soil sent a shiver through his naked buttocks and thighs, but he didn’t care. He made himself busy by admiring the skull on his lap.
He had drawn tribal designs on it with periwinkle blue and used red paint to circle the eye sockets. The paint then ran down the curvature of the cheekbones, until its tips. An excellent piece of art, the trophy that reminded him of the days gone. As he put his arm over Sandy’s headstone, melancholy invaded his semi-drunk mind.
Back in LA, he’d imagined killing Ricky every single night before sleeping. In his fantasies, he never used his hands or legs as much as he’d used his mouth. He had always ached to sink his canines into Ricky’s neck, shake his head violently, and rip the flesh off. To kill him only with the power of his teeth and jaws. When Tyrel had learned about Aztec rituals, he’d shaped the unfathomable anger blistering inside him, and conceptualized the idea of carving Ricky’s heart out and eating it.
Now that Ricky was but a piece of art, his hatred should have subsided. But it had only spread out like wildfire. There were so many Rickys out there, and Tyrel wanted to get rid of as many of them as possible. To make them pay for their evil ways. To collect what they owed to thousands of innocent, helpless animals they had murdered. A debt collector. Oh, yes, he hadn’t forgotten his life’s purpose, while he was in juvie. His vision had become more cogent and focused.
But was he truthful in his motivation? Did he really want to do it for the animals? Yes. But was it only for them? No.
Tyrel couldn’t picture much of sacrificing Ricky. He remembered that he broke his arm and stabbed him a few dozen times in a blaze of fury. But the instant when Ricky died had slipped from his mind. The more he tried to relive that moment, the more elusive it became.
What clung to his memory, though, was the feeling of power. His tormentor lying dead under his feet was the time he had felt powerful. He wanted to experience that again. So, was this why he wanted to kill people? To feel unadulterated power one more time?
Partially.
But mostly it was his gluttony. He missed the taste of tenderly cooked human flesh.
Without consuming sinner meat, he was losing his edge. If there was one thing he feared, one thing he never wanted to be, it was powerless. He needed to fight, needed to kill someone. And devour them. He would never be a weak twink again.
“My sweetie.” He patted the headstone. “We gotta long journey ahead of us.”
Chapter 15
April 7, 2019. 06:13 P.M.
The saddest thing about dwelling at rock bottom is not that it obliterates our physical and mental energy. Rather it brings out our innate ability to acclimate to that place. The streets were just another layer in the depth of desperation that humans proved they could wallow in. Tough and ugly, not unlike sewer rats, surviving only for survival’s sake.
Everyone has their own way of hitting rock bottom. Gabriel’s plunge into it was no different than thousands of veterans battling PTSD.
It started ten years ago, at the age of twenty-three, several months after Gabriel became the youngest detective in the Homicide Squad of the 122nd precinct. He had a problem with his new job—he couldn’t let a murder go unresolved. For his colleagues, cold cases were like dull pain they avoided. But for Gabriel it throbbed like a fresh wound. Turning his mind away from the victims of violent murders who didn’t get closure proved impossible. They invaded his sleep and filled every night with terrifying nightmares.
As the volume of cold cases mounted, his nightmares intensified. Ironically, police business taught him that the concept of right and wrong was not an incontrovertible law of the universe, but merely an idea humans had invented to try and derive order from chaos. He learned that the higher entity, if there was any, didn’t much care about justice, and karma didn’t exist. The truth shattered his peace. And Smirnoff pacified him.
But drinking claimed its price, the costliest of them all, his ex-wife and the love of his life, Elizabeth aka Liz. She’d put up with Gabriel’s all-nighters, alcoholism, mood swings, lies, and broken promises. She had put up with these things longer than any person ever would, but there was only so much even an iron-willed woman like her could tolerate.
Inhuman: Detective Chase hunts an animal who protects his own Page 9
