Dance of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  “Of course!” the inspector smiles, seeming to miss the hint of sarcasm in the word, then remembers the cigarettes, shaking one out and plucking it between his lips, dropping the pack to the table, then fishing out a silver-plated lighter, holding it with both hands, though he pauses once the flame is sparked, somewhat unkempt, bushy eyebrows perking up again as he looks at the two, “Cigarette?”

  Both of the detectives decline, which results in another shrug as Duilio lights his, then unceremoniously drops the item on the tabletop by the pack, leaning back as he inhales, turning his head to blow the smoke away from them.

  “We have information on many international crime rings,” he begins, slowly and emphatically speaking the word, “And we think this vigilante may be a powerful enforcer for one of them. So, you see, he is a rival criminal, not some … comic book hero trying to right the world’s wrongs.”

  “Okay, then,” Quain leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, entwining his fingers as he clasps his hands, “What’s the next step?”

  “Ahhh, good question, yes,” the inspector points at him with a hand that now holds the cigarette, using two fingers to do so in order to not drop the burning stick, “We must tighten the noose, no?” he says, holding up his free hand, which he closes into a fist. “This vigilante is slippery. How does he know so much about the operations here, and not just here,” he announces, holding out his arms, “He knew of the girl in Poland. What else does he know? How does he know, hmm?” perked eyebrows accentuate this, and the cigarette is placed back in the man’s mouth, the end blazing brighter as he pulls on it.

  “That’s a good question, too,” Alec offers, and he gets a quick snap of a smile from Duilio, smoke exhaled through his nose.

  “Exactly,” the man nods, “So, we find the leaks and set up even better defenses. This vigilante has an infrastructure just like we do, some network of support, and maybe we can use this to cripple him or find him.”

  “Okay, so how do we do that?” Quain persists.

  “We deduce, we detect, we inspect, no?” the man replies, pronouncing each action with greater emphasis. “And it may be time to get this out to the people.”

  “Now, hold on a minute,” the larger of the two detectives says, “The captain said to keep it out of the public.”

  “Ah, well,” Duilio says, smirking a touch, still holding and not much smoking his cigarette, “This is not just up to the captain, is it? Besides, this was said before the vigilante was a murder suspect.”

  And he takes another drag on his cigarette, giving the two a self-satisfied grin, as though solidly settling any debate.

  Chapter Six

  Trucks after trucks pouring into the city. Surely, it may not necessarily prove a plague, but if one were to somehow acquire all the transport manifests, even though many would be misleading or outright fraudulent, it would be evident that imports to the city have increased, especially in a particular niche.

  As far as they know, the vigilante is one person, working alone, and one person, no matter how skilled, has a limited scope. The idea is that if they cannot completely stop the attacks, they will overwhelm the city so that something will escape notice and generate revenue for them. A war of attrition. There is also the idea that if the vigilante is forced to step up operations, perhaps even urgency, then more trails will be left, more mistakes mayhap made.

  There are other obvious revenue streams, but the meat of the crime ring’s money comes from operations that are being hit. Consideration had been given to minimizing those in favor of the others, but the more aggressive approach has won out for now. Procurement and acquisitions have been stepped up, further investments made, thus raising the risk and cost and importance that they win this war in which they have found themselves unexpectedly and quite thoroughly embroiled.

  One thing that may help is the information that was recently “leaked” to the press regarding the police investigation into a serial criminal lurking in the city, one whom, according to the reports, may be somehow linked to the very organization that is now stepping up their own operations. The captain had been furious, of course, to find out about the news report, giving the entire department a serious haranguing. They all knew this was largely due to a similar chewing he had, no doubt, received from the director. Even as evidence was developing that shows the vigilante in a much less favorable light, the department still wants to exert as much control as possible over the flow of that information. Accusing eyes had glared out from the captain, seeming to try to peer into each person’s soul under his supervision, trying to force a confession from the likely source. No one, of course, had buckled under this scrutiny.

  And as if this would not be bad enough on its own, but with the serial killer, things were looking dark indeed for the metropolis. One of the newscasters of a more sensationalistic bent took it so far as to question the abilities of the entire police force, positing some coming chaos to the city, even suggesting this masked criminal enforcer may also be the serial killer. If the police could get off their lazy asses and catch this “monster”, then all would be well.

  The murderer does lurk out there somewhere in the settlement, eager for more victims when the moment is again right. The area has recently become a nice home, a nice haunt, the ancient buildings of some quarters giving a sense of familiarity to the creature. A beast, yes, as evinced by the savagery with which it kills, but still sapient all the same. Rules must be obeyed, of course, and so patience is embraced, claws sharpened and ready, for that precise time may be felt growing, swelling like a burgeoning wave, a seeding storm.

  More change is coming, and the influx of semi-trailer trucks is not the only sign of increased activity on the part of the criminal organization, for they have sent out the necessary inquiries and requests to employ a part of the underworld they do not always engage, one that may be more aptly thought of as part of a shadow world.

  There are many ways to surreptitiously and indirectly seek the services of freelance criminals, and the methods of employing hackers and other such cyber-outlaws may seem amongst the more cryptic. Still, Gnegon’s influence is sufficient, and the calls are made, especially as there is involvement, however directly unrelated, from the local police and even Interpol. Some of the potential hires do not find this connection, but the more savvy ones are aware of the nexus, and they are able to bring clarity from the clouds.

  One in particular, a young girl of twenty-one years named Yan Therese Stendahl, going by Therese in her offline life and the hacker handle “Sparrow” in her other life, picks up on the connections and finds the job request very interesting, indeed. The pale, skinny girl with her dyed black, short, spikey hair has other contacts in the “shadow world”, and she figures one of them will be very curious to hear of this. She puts in her bid, indicating her interest in pursuing the job, then sends off a message to her other connection.

  She waits, running some scripts and analyses, putting together some quick reports and finding out more information regarding the job and the webs behind it. She adds some of this to another message to her contact and sends it via secure channels.

  Still, no response.

  That is not entirely out of the ordinary, but she is a bit excited to share this, even if her typical aloof, even defiant exterior does not change in the physical world. She may give the appearance of a dark, goth-punk person who hardly gives a fuck, but this is somewhat due to the speed and acuity of her mind. She is often bored, her brain moving at a seeming inhuman pace in some regards, thus giving way to an impatience she hides behind many layers.

  She runs some more checks, digging deeper, executing some of the typical actions she does for her other contact. She pauses long enough to gulp lukewarm coffee from the mug on the table, doing her work here in her small apartment, on her tweaked and protected laptop. She leans back, propping her naked feet in the only other chair at the tiny, metal table. Two of her toes bare rings, the silver metal duller than the gleam of her black-painted
nails, and a rather elaborate, grayscale tattoo curls and twines on the top of her left foot, sneaking up beneath her tight, black leggings.

  After a short time, she checks again, and still, no response.

  *****

  Another laptop is fired up in a dark room, the glow from its monitor received with some irritation and minor pain by the sole person here. Tenderness has not entirely left. Narrowed eyes look at the screen as a cup is raised, the strong, steaming brew sipped carefully, thankfully, for the stomach is also upset.

  The sleek, state-of-the-art machine is equipped with top-tier security software and a firewall on a very high setting, connected to the internet through Tor-network and proxies, perhaps something one could even consider paranoid. It takes a mere moment to see that messages await, and these are checked, the eyes scanning over the contents not at their usual sharpness. As the person reads, a stiffer posture is gained, the mug forgotten, until finally a noisy exhale is emitted, teeth slowly coming together in its wake, and now the eyes narrow in further thought, analysis, planning.

  The cup is set aside, ignored for now, as fingers move in a flash over the keyboard, right hand occasionally moving over to the mouse. The criminal organization is trying to increase the stakes, trying to falsify information and possibly get the reader into more legal trouble than one might expect merely from practicing vigilantism.

  The stout drinking vessel finds itself picked back up, the coffee remembered, its contents sipped as the person leans back in the chair, watching a video from the sensationalistic news caster, speaking of the crusader and the alleged crimes attributed. Then there is the not quite subtle suggestion that the vigilante may also be the recently active serial killer, and this causes another stiffening of the spine.

  A light moan emerges, a movement left, then right, trying to gently work out soreness.

  Fortunately, the drug stabbed into the vigilante’s thigh had proven to only be a large dose of a sedative. It could have been much worse, especially without the counter-agent and the obvious fitness coming into play. The doctor may have just been trying to get out some random final attack, or perhaps he hoped it would render his adversary unconscious, left for the guards, but that had been narrowly avoided. The ride back home had been scary, the administration of the dose of stimulant along with sheer will keeping the rider awake and alert enough to make it.

  Many hours after arriving home had been spent in forced wakefulness, another EpiPen at the ready, observing reactions, a phone nearby if any life threatening symptoms had manifest. Such had proven unnecessary, if requisitely cautious, though a trip to the clinic would be in order as soon as possible to check for any possible negative repercussions of the syringe of the doctor’s possibly being ‘dirty’.

  The figure leans back into the laptop, composing a message for another person in the network of informants and contacts, deciding to do some digging into other counter-measures that may be used in case something like that happens again, maybe something to take pro-actively if such threats are suspected or known.

  So, the crime ring is trying to employ hackers and other such cyber-detectives to aid in thwarting this “nuisance” to them? With the security already in place, it is doubtful that will yield any positive results. Thankfully, Sparrow is involved and providing the same sort of invaluable help she always has. Meeting her had proven very fortuitous. Though, depending on how things develop, she could also be the weakest link.

  More things to consider … many more things.

  *****

  Lilja uses one of the library’s public computers, having easy access to them due to her being on the staff, ticking away with evident experience on the keyboard, her nails in their usual very short, trimmed state, painted a mint cream. The information she seeks is readily available, which is good, because she is not logged in, just using the machine in its default state of protocols. She has chosen one toward the far end of the room, the position of the station facing toward the main entryway, allowing her to note anyone’s approach. This may not be her usual sort of activity here, but she has decided to do some checking, and she’d rather not be found doing it.

  The screen shows mostly text, immersed within some degree of aesthetic, the design is conservative, somewhat baroque, an economical menu bar down the left offers other choices, the school’s name and insignia displayed at the center top of the page. An image of the recently hired Philosophy Professor, Denman Malkuth, shows toward the top right beneath another header bar providing pathways to other areas of the website. Basic information is offered, and Professor Malkuth shows quite the curriculum vitae, receiving his PhD at Oxford, though he is obviously not from England, unless he has made very exacting effort to remove any regional intonation, speaking with a rather Transatlantic accent. Of course, she also knows how one’s accent may not necessarily be that immediately indicative of place of birth or rearing.

  He shows to have spent time teaching at Humboldt University of Berlin as well as Duke University. He has published many papers, and not just in his field, also encroaching into art history and linguistics, also serving as editor on a compendium of German philosophers, paying particular attention to the works of Lazarus Geiger. He also seems to hold much interest in the work of Rousseau, penning essays of his own regarding the ‘noble savage’ and human avenues of development. His course load for his first semester shows him teaching classes in the interpretation and meaning of communication, an advanced study in perception, and an introductory session in early modern philosophy.

  It all looks very accomplished and in order.

  A quick search on his curious surname does not reveal much, cross-referencing mostly to the sephirot of the Kabbalistic Tree of Life, referring to matter and the physical world. It also means royalty, royal power, and to reign. It appears as deliberate as his entire image. She wonders if it is truly his last name as well as how much of his listed credentials are legitimate. She also wonders, again, at the curious timing of his arrival, his curious nature, and the new things lately afoot in the city.

  She considers why he is wanting the book and what ties he may have with Skothiam. Should she mention him to Skot? She also finds it interesting that she knows of the Felcraft name and its obvious position in the world of book collecting, but she can find no mention of Malkuth as either a rival collector, dealer, or agent. All she is able to locate is mention of a philanthropic foundation tied to a Malkuth family, but she is unable to locate anything that links this to the new professor.

  And she finds herself also burning with more curiosity about the tome itself.

  It is surely not just a matter of authenticating a valuable publication in hopes of acquiring it for a personal collection or profitable resale. It must have something to do with the contents of the book. She possesses access to the item as well as enough knowledge of Latin that she could likely navigate through it, but she figures it would take more than that to begin to plumb its secrets.

  Though, in the back of her mind, she knows she shall not so isolate herself. She has already chosen a side.

  She looks up to see Amanda approaching, and a fuller raise of her chin and fixed stare upon the woman brings her to a nearby halt.

  “Ah,” she says, implying much in that word, “Mr. Felcraft is downstairs, waiting for you.”

  “I’ll be there shortly. Thank you, Amanda.”

  The other woman gives a lengthy look, then a single dip of her head before turning and heading back.

  *****

  Later that evening, they walk together to her parked car. They’ve had another dinner date after a day of work. She had subtly inserted herself more into his activities, asking about his research, and he had proved receptive. This pleased her, not only due to her growing curiosity about the book, but also because of her growing feelings for him.

  She had quietly sat there in the chair next to his, listening as he gained steam and became something of a lecturer, talking not only of the rare book’s contents but other subjects
to which they relate, touching on physics, metaphysics, mythology, religion. He relayed how some parts of the book read like poetic verse, speaking of worlds and dimensions, seeming to be as much an occult text as the flowery framework of fantasy. She had listened with rapt attention.

  It had been enlightening, and she finds his knowledge attractive, especially the passion he evinces of it and the way in which he expresses it and himself. She even found herself gently interrupting every now and then to ask him the meaning of a word. Her knowledge and use of the English language has been for many years now, making her quite fluent. Though she occasionally comes across an unknown word, in the short time they have known one another, it crops up more and more often, his vocabulary rather more robust than most.

  They had drifted into discussing music whilst enjoying their evening meal together. They both share something of an interest in dark, melodic tones, but they also both have rather, broad eclectic tastes. They had mentioned artists of which the other was lacking familiarity, sharing grins as they texted each other names and songs to investigate at a later time.

  She asked him his favorite, and he had trouble narrowing it down, trying to give as best an answer as he could muster, and just as when they had initially discussed preferred foods, he had returned the question to her. She had again given a very broad response, her gentle, innocent-seeming charm coming through. He finds it interesting, as well as deeply attractive, that she displays moments like these, as though she were an open, curious, and courageous child in search of the world.

  And now the night has fully drawn its canopy over them as they meander back to her vehicle. It brings a mystery and romance to the moment that might otherwise show lacking under the full blare of the sun. He walks on the side nearer the street, the occasional car moving past at the slow speeds generally kept here so close to the university grounds. Her car is no more than two short blocks away, the black 1989 BMW M3 parallel parked there on the street in one of the more prime spots reserved for those with a staff permit.