The Perversion Trilogy: Perversion, Possession & Permission

by T. M. Frazier

  It’s been at least an hour. Still no Lemming. No explanation of why I’m here. I’m covered in dust and dirt, and my bones ache as exhaustion takes hold.

  I sit and then stand, then sit again. Growing more and more frustrated as the minutes tick on. I stand and head into the bathroom. I might as well take advantage of the room while I wait for my captures to decide if they’re going to fill me in on what’s to become of me.

  Luxury before torture? Pampering before prison? However you want to label it, I occupy my time by taking a long, steaming hot bath that soothes my aches. I shave. Wash my hair. After I dry off, I try a lotion that smells like cucumber, slathering it all over my legs and arms.

  I wrap my head and body in the fluffy towels and go back into the bedroom. I choose a pair of yoga pants and one of the vintage band t-shirts. I dress and lay down on the bed. I’m picturing strong, tattooed arms and black roses as exhaustion takes hold and I drift off to sleep.

  I’m not sure how long I’ve slept, but I wake to Agent Lemming pacing the room at the foot of the bed.

  “It’s about time you showed up,” I say groggily, sitting up against the pillows and rubbing my eyes. I’m just about to ask him about Grim and Gabby, but I don’t get the chance.

  Agent Lemming stops pacing. His eyes are wide, and his expression is that of shock. “He’s dead. They’re all fucking dead,” he whispers, like he can’t believe it himself.

  “Who?” I ask, dread climbing from my gut to my throat. I swallow it back down. I’m instantly awake. I jump to my feet. “Who is dead?”

  His eyes meet mine. “All of them. Grim, Sandy, Haze. They’re all fucking dead.”

  Four

  “Why are we here?” I ask Agent Lemming.

  “Protocol,” he says, looking up to a camera perched above the door next to a sign that simply reads MORGUE. “Someone has to identify the bodies. Marci is at the reservation hospital. She’s going to be okay, but she’s still unconscious.

  Marci. My own grief spreads to her.

  She’s lost everyone. Her husband. Her sons.

  “I think I’m going to be sick.” I grab my midsection where my gut feels like it’s swallowed my heart and is now rotting inside.

  “We’ll make this quick,” he assures me.

  “I don’t want to go in there,” I say, taking a step back. I shake my head. “This can’t be real.”

  He sighs. “We won’t know if it’s real until we go in.”

  Lemming pushes open the door and guides me inside with a hand on my back.

  Three bodies wrapped in black plastic body bags lay side-by-side on stainless steel beds. The bags lay unzipped just enough to reveal the frozen faces inside. The morgue smells not of death, but of whatever chemicals they use to disguise death. A combination of vinegar and disinfectant that singes my nostrils.

  Lemming looks to the ceiling again, scanning it briefly. He clears his throat and stands straight with his shoulders back. “Do you know these men?” He positions himself behind their heads and in front of a massive, body-sized filing cabinet.

  It’s a stupid question. He knows that I know them, but it must be part of his protocol.

  I stare at the three men and take a step back. Not because I don't know them. Of course, I do. But it's as if I've been tossed into a fire, and I’m burning up from the inside out.

  “It’s okay. They can’t hurt you. Not anymore,” Lemming says, not realizing that he's got it all wrong. But correcting him is the last thing on my mind. He motions with his hand for me to come closer.

  I steel myself and take one step and then another, propelled only by my need to get this hellish nightmare over with. Any second now, I’ll wake up. I’m sure of it.

  I approach the first table. My knees buckle. Agent Lemming rounds the bodies and holds me upright with his hand under my elbow. “Do you know these men?”

  “Yes. It’s...it's them,” I say, choking on my words.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m going to need you to say their names out loud for the record,” Agent Lemming says apologetically. He’s a prick, but at this moment, I really do believe he feels sorry for me.

  I look from frozen face to frozen face, willing them to wake up.

  “Names,” Lemming prompts.

  I raise one shaky finger and point to the first body. “That’s Sandy,” I whisper. My eyes would well up with tears if I had any left to cry. I move my hand over to the body on the other end. “I know him as Haze.” My heart pounds as I shake loose of Agent Lemming’s hold and find myself standing over the body in the middle. He looks peaceful, as if he’s sleeping. All the hard lines of anger and hurt typically marring his forehead and around his eyes are gone. His usually tanned skin is now a vampiric shade of harsh white. My stomach rolls.

  “And this one?” the agent asks, coming to stand beside me.

  My heart falls into my stomach, and again, he has to hold me upright. I can’t stop myself from reaching out to the body, smoothing back his light brown hair that looks almost orange under the harsh fluorescents. The zap of our connection is still there, even in death. I hold one hand over my mouth, afraid that if I release one sob the floodgates will open to a lifetime of despair I won’t be able to control.

  “How?” I manage to ask.

  “Not sure yet. The coroner hasn’t finished his report.” Lemming points to the last body, the one I’ve yet to identify. “And him?”

  My bare thighs press up against the cool metal of the table. It vibrates against me, but it’s not the table that's trembling. It's me. “That’s...I mean he’s...” I start. “This is Grim. Tristan Paine," I croak. I bend over and lower my lips to Grim’s cold ear. I press my palm to his unmoving throat. My voice is a mere whisper he can no longer hear. “My honor. My loyalty. My love. My life. For you. For us.” A tear falls from my chin and lands on his eyelid, spilling down his face as if he’s the one who’s crying. I wipe the tear with my thumb and press my lips to his. “For always.”

  Down the hall, someone is singing softly. The tune is all too familiar.

  I stand and listen closely to make sure I’m hearing right. I am.

  Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral

  Too-ra-loo-ra-li

  Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral

  Hush now, don't you cry

  Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral

  Too-ra-loo-ra-li

  Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral

  The song grows louder. Closer.

  An odd awareness crawls up the back of my legs like a hundred tiny spiders. My entire body is chilled, and not because I’m standing in a freezer meant for the dead.

  Both Agent Lemming and I turn toward the sound. The top of a man’s head appears through the high square window in the door.

  Agent Lemming doesn’t appear as alarmed as I do that there’s a mysterious man on the other side of the door. Then again, he isn’t hearing a life-long familiar tune outside of his own head for the very first time. The door swings open and in walks a man wearing a neatly pressed black suit with a white button-down shirt. No tie. He lifts the flat cap from his head and steps into the room. He’s wrinkled around his eyes and his jaw is rough with stubble. His teeth are slightly crooked in the front, but it doesn’t stop him from grinning wide at Agent Lemming.

  All thoughts of the familiarity of the song fades. I don’t know this man, but Agent Lemming apparently does.

  “Cameras are disabled,” the man informs Lemming.

  “Good.” Agent Lemming wraps the man in a one-armed hug. “Alby, good to see ya. ‘Bout time you be gettin’ here. You get stuck in the jacks?” For some reason, Agent Lemming no longer sounds like a man from the South. He has a thick accent. One I haven’t heard him use up until now.

  “You got that fecking song in my head, again,” Alby groans with a broad smile and the same thick accent.

  “It’s always in mine, Alby. You might get used to it.”

  It hits me. The accent, it’s…Irish.

  Shit. I check for the nearest exit, but they are
standing in front of the only door. I could make a run for it. It might be my only chance of escape.

  “Jaysis, this whole thing went arseways for Bedlam, didn’t it?” Alby muses with a whistle, taking in the corpses of Grim, Sandy, and Haze.

  “For them, yes. For us? We got what we came for.” Lemming steps aside.

  Alby’s gaze lands on me. “Ye found her,” he whispers, unblinking.

  “Aye,” Lemming nods proudly. “And not a moment too soon.”

  I momentarily forget my plan of escape and give in to my overwhelming curiosity. “You found who?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest. “And by the way, nice accent, Lemming.”

  Lemming responds with a knowing smirk.

  Alby laughs, gripping his midsection. “She’s got fire, I see. It’s practically smoldering from her ears.”

  “That she does,” Lemming agrees, grinning like a Cheshire cat as he stares down at me.

  “I’m in the room!” I yell, feeling my face redden. “Or can’t you see me?”

  Alby slaps him playfully on the back.

  Lemming nods to me. “I see you perfectly. Clear as a lake on a sunny day.” He turns to Alby. “Is the plane ready?”

  Alby looks to the bodies again then nods. “‘Course, Callum. Just as ye asked.”

  I gasp. My heart stutters, and so do my words. “Ca-Ca-Callum?”

  “Yes, as in Callum Eagan.” Lemming’s eyes lock on mine. “The one and only.”

  Five

  “How?” I manage to ask. We’re in a well-appointed town car with soft leather seats. Lemming is seated next to me in the back. Alby is driving. “How did Grim not know you weren’t really Lemming?”

  “Simple. Never met the man. I’ve met Belly and Marci, but never Grim. He’s always dealt with Alby when it came to our business.”

  “But you took Marci in. Had her arrested. Wouldn’t she have recognized you?”

  “I never went into the holding area. Never talked to her, just the boys who I also had never met as Callum Egan.”

  “Why? Why all this elaborate ruse?” I press.

  His expression is one of amusement, his eyes as wide as his grin. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  We are silent for the rest of the thirty-minute trip. I feel like I’m in another world. Callum says he’ll explain everything on the plane, but where that plane is going and why leaves me asking myself a million questions I can’t answer while Callum is furiously tapping away on his phone while Alby drives. We pull up to an airstrip where there’s only a single jet on the runway with the steps pulled down. Callum gets out and greets the pilot while Alby gets the bags from the trunk and begins carrying them over to the plane.

  I pause as the grief clouding my thoughts clears. These men are Irish. Clan Egan. The same Irish men who think that Bedlam took down their shipment. They probably are the ones who killed Grim and his brothers. Lemming might have appeared shocked when he told me about their deaths, but then again, it was all an act. There was never really an Agent Lemming.

  What if I’m next?

  I can’t die and leave Marci and Gabby with no one.

  Unless, they’ve already gotten to them…

  I push my growing panic down and form a plan.

  Callum stops when he realizes I’m not following and turns back, waving me forward, I take a few steps toward the plane then stop. “Hang on one sec,” I say. “I forgot my…” I let my words trail off as I slide into the back seat.

  “What did you forget? You don’t have anything,” Callum shouts over the roar of the jet engines.

  I don’t bother shutting the back door. I crawl over the dash into the front seat. Thankfully, the keys are still in the ignition. I turn it on as Callum and Alby race toward the car. I throw it into reverse and slam my foot on the gas. I don’t bother to look in the rearview as I speed through the bumpy field. The back door thankfully shuts from the bouncing around.

  I don't underestimate Callum. If he has nefarious plans for me, then obviously, he's the kind of man who will catch up to me and will find me, but hopefully, it’s not before I make sure Marci and Gabby are safe.

  I turn out of the field onto the two-lane road. The tires skid in the dirt, and I correct the wheel until I’m straight once more. I only know how to drive because I was taught by one of Marco’s soldiers who wanted me to drive the getaway car while he robbed a private poker game. It never came to fruition because he died, but I’m grateful I know the basics, even if it’s been a while.

  After what seems like forever, I spot the sign for the reservation on the side of the road. A peeling, short billboard with Chief David’s smiling face standing in front of a backdrop of the casino. I pull on the wheel just as the driver’s side window cracks into several small spiderwebs in quick succession.

  Bullets.

  I’m being shot at.

  Thankfully, this car seems to have bulletproof windows because they haven’t penetrated the glass. But bulletproof only lasts for so long when you’re being hit over and over and over again. Eventually, the windows will give out. A tiny piece of glass falls onto my lap.

  Soon.

  I press my foot to the gas. I’m mid-turn, and as I straighten the car, the front windshield receives the same bullet decoration as the driver’s window. I can’t see anything. My adrenaline spikes.

  Just stay on the road. The reservation is only a hundred yards away. You’ve got this. You can do it. Just keep going.

  A tire pops, or at least, I think it does because the smooth road suddenly feels like I’m traveling over a minefield of boulders. The wheel fights my grip. I can’t keep it straight. I lose control as the entire vehicle rattles and vibrates with the onslaught. Metal crunches all around me. The sound echoes in my ears as I careen off the road and crash into a steep ditch.

  The airbags feel like a cannon being launched at my face, but I don’t have time to access injuries as the bullets grow louder faster, continuing to pummel the car like the hail of a thousand windstorms. I crawl over to the passenger seat and try to unlock the door just as the driver’s window explodes and rains down glass all around me. I duck and curl my body up as tightly in a ball as I possibly can under the dashboard as shots wiz only inches from my head. The passenger window breaks.

  That’s it. It’s over.

  I’m done.

  Bullets aren’t what broke the window, but a black, leather-clad elbow. It recedes as a tattooed hand appears, unlatching the door. It’s twisted metal, but with inhuman strength, it’s pried open.

  Grim appears.

  I must already be dead.

  “I've got you, Tricks. Keep your head down.” He reaches inside and pulls me out, tossing me over his shoulder. I spot Sandy and Haze to the right and left of the overturned car. They’re returning fire. Grim uses his free hand and grabs his gun from his waistband, doing the same. Sandy and Haze cover for Grim as he moves us backwards until we’re deep in the thick of the woods. He holsters his gun and flips me forward, cradling me in his strong arms.

  He’s running as bullets echo through the trees.

  I reach up and touch his face, then nestle into his warm chest. “You’re beautiful, you know, even though you’re dead.”

  Six

  I wake up in a hospital room, but not in a hospital bed, on a small sofa. I glance up to see Marci occupying the bed in the center of the room. I made it. How did I get back? I think hard. Grim.

  My heart sinks as I remember him cold in the morgue.

  It couldn’t have been Grim. He’s dead.

  It was all a cruel joke played on me, courtesy of desperation and hallucination.

  I slink off the couch toward Marci and reach for her hand. I hold it in mine. “I’m so sorry, Marci. About all of this. About what happened to you, about losing…” I choke up, “…your boys.”

  “Our boys,” she corrects me.

  My eyes dart to hers. They’re half-open. She squeezes my hand. Her smile is tight lipped.

  “You’r
e awake,” I croak out.

  “Am I?” she says with a small laugh that leads to a cough.

  “You should rest,” I tell her.

  “I’ll rest when I’m dead.”

  I flinch at her choice of words.

  “And you’ve got nothing to be sorry about EJ. You might be the cause, but it’s not your fault. You never asked for this. You never inserted yourself in our lives and asked us if you can be a part of our family. You just are.” She laughs. “Belly had a saying.” She squeezes my hand again. “Stop pointing fingers at yourself, and start pointing guns at others.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “That’s…kind of confusing.”

  “Is it. It also never made a whole lot of sense…until now. Look at that. Belly was a goddamned philosopher after all.”

  “Marci, about the boys,” I start, knowing she’s about to take back her words about things not being my fault when she finds out her sons are all dead.

  “Don’t be apologizing about them either. They love you, and they’ll do anything in the world for you, just like I would.”

  “I know they would’ve. It’s just that— “

  “If you don’t believe me, you can ask them yourself. Sandy was just in here giving me shit about not wanting anything to eat yet. I’m sure he’ll be back to annoy me again any second now, and tell him…” her voice trails off. Her eyes close, and within seconds, her breathing evens out as sleep pulls her into its embrace once again. Marci thinking she just saw Sandy is a fresh, gaping wound to my heart. It looks as if I’m not the only one hallucinating.

  I slowly get off the bed and pull my hand from Marci’s. I spy the bathroom. Once inside, I close the door. The click of the lock is like a hammer to a fish tank. Everything spills out from within me. I sink to the floor.

  There's a wide crack running through the tile. It starts at the toilet between my feet and travels through the grout, splitting the floor all the way to the wall opposite me. I keep staring at it, hoping that, maybe, if I concentrate on the jagged line long enough it will crack open and swallow me down. I don't care where it goes.