She sent some more messages to her contact, even drifting toward some pointed conclusions, though those had still been hints, just not as subtle. If her contact has the answers she suspects, she hopes she’ll get a response. She stopped short of declaring her intentions, though, not wanting to invite any more risk or exposure to this endeavor than already awaits. She’s received no replies beyond the scant, usual requests for particular types of information and analysis.
She finally sees the guy, not sure exactly when he showed up, but finally drawn to notice him, perhaps inevitably, as she has been sitting in here for a while now, still trying to get something out of her time spent in amateur surveillance. He’s also wearing a hoodie, his head presently uncovered, his unkempt, light blonde hair in an obvious unconcerned array. Like her, he is also very thin, though he looks sickly, his pale flesh almost gray or ashen, his blue eyes washed of color.
He sits there, uncommonly still, as though his motionlessness is a shroud. She wonders, then, why she has noticed him, and he certainly seems to not notice her, if he sees much of anything at all. He looks lost to this world. But then, he moves, bringing a cigarette to his lips, followed by a lighter, and she can see the shake there, the simmering jitter, and his eyes sort of bug out. He fires the cigarette, puffing on it, then brings up his coffee cup, somehow not spilling any, taking a shaky gulp before setting it down, another deep, puffing intake on his cigarette before he lowers his hands, the moldering stick between his fingers, then he almost imperceptibly resolves back to that statue-like state.
She figures he doesn’t care about the ordinance about not smoking inside public places. The waiter comes over, intent on reminding him, and Therese pays close attention, wondering how this may play out. The server is polite, quiet, maybe too quiet, because the guy does not respond. He leans over more, getting closer, intent on gaining the guy’s attention, but the smoker only stares off with that vacant look. The waiter finally dares to set a gentle hand on the guy’s shoulder, and this brings a slow blink and obvious rousing to him, as he looks up, that brewing tension back to his appearance. Some quiet words are exchanged, and then he uses a napkin to put out his cigarette, leaving the crumbled, barely used thing sitting atop the table. As the waiter leaves, he blinks a few more times, then goes back to the stillness.
Something is very off with this guy. She wonders if he is just another washed out piece of human refuse, lost in mind or body or both. But he doesn’t seem that common, which is sad in and of itself. She’s seen addicts and the homeless and the mentally unbalanced, and though he appears to have characteristics in common, he seems somehow discrete from them. There is something in his eyes, something that fills her with a discomfort at not only what he may possibly see but also what is going on in his mind.
This goes on for a while, her watching him as he will suddenly break from the spell, going into a buzzing, jittery animation that had previously been totally lacking, partaking of his coffee. She even observes as he fishes in his pocket, unworried at all at anyone’s possible notice, bringing out a tiny red pill, almost like a piece of candy, slipping it into his mouth and chasing it down with the caffeinated brew.
By the time he finally does get up to leave, she has decided to follow.
She’s spotted something else, for even as his lingering moments of stillness are occasionally interrupted by his stuttering motions, when he does finally slip out of the booth to make his exit, that aspect has gone. Though his appearance is still of that almost otherworldly pallor, he looks to have better control of himself now, somehow compelled to a calm focus. She gives some passing wonder as to what type of pill he took, but her main concern is to follow him without giving the appearance of doing so.
This proves easy enough as he meanders down the street, a trail of smoke from a fresh cigarette like the misty expulsion of a mechanical pipe atop the tall fellow, as though the biochemical process gives him his motive power. He hardly seems to even be taking notice of his surroundings, any oncoming foot traffic moving out of his way, and he certainly doesn’t look to his rear.
He finally does stop, and so does she, hanging back a good fifty feet, pulling out her phone to seem less suspicious. She keeps an eye on him. He looks around, though his gaze still does no more than pass over her. He peers across the street, and she wonders if he will move down and take the crosswalk, or maybe he’ll just stroll across here, now, not a care given for vehicles on the road. He then looks left, doing a double-take, as though someone may have called his name, though she has heard nothing. She peers, seeing naught that may indicate a compatriot or otherwise trying to get his attention.
She does see what has gathered his notice, though, the space here at the corner occupied by a strip club, words and neon shapes on the outside speaking of the promising erotic, sexual visions of girls inside. A deep drag on the cigarette, then a careless toss of it aside, and he heads within. She lingers but a moment before following.
She pulls her hood down, trying to better obscure herself, and she knows the burly doorman is eyeballing her. She hopes he figures she is just some thin, young guy, perhaps out for his first taste of such teasings and temptations. She see the cover charge cost posted clearly enough, and she hands over an amount that includes an obvious extra. If he had been inclined to question her, he now just takes the money, waving her inside.
The place looks as one might expect – dark, seedy, though not so insufferable as to be covered in spills or grime all over the area. The wood walls are painted, that dark coloring only peeling away in a few places. The art on the walls, what there is of it, is abstract, amateur-seeming, even somewhat grotesquely-proportioned, erotic paintings of women. She can’t tell if it is even more demeaning or perhaps an eloquent commentary on what is going on in here.
She wanders to a small table, one against the wall, not near the stage with its poles and nigh naked girls upon it. She glances about, looking for her quarry, but she doesn’t easily spot him. Maybe he went to the bathroom, but she’ll give it a better study once she’s settled. She sits, then looks into the expectant eyes of a girl who has followed her to the table.
She blinks, a bit startled, as the young lady smiles, her make-up overdone, just like the tight squeeze of her breasts pushing up from within her demi-cup bikini top. She also has on a very short skirt and lime green fishnets going down into clear platform heels.
“What can I bring you?”
Therese looks down, “Beer,” she grumbles, trying to sound gruff, coming off perhaps more awkward, which she hopes is interpreted as her being a young, shy guy.
“D’ya have any particular flavor?” she asks, and from the downward angled gaze, Therese sees movement at the girl’s ankles, a sway of her body, the underlying meaning of the question obvious enough.
“No,” another gruff response, and the working girl heads to the bar, the click of her heels heard for a short time within the overwhelming barrage of the guitar-heavy rock music.
When she returns with the bottle of cheap beer, Therese has already placed a note on the table top, which proves barely enough to cover the inflated cost. She peeled and cleaned the black paint from her nails, but she still keeps her slender fingers hidden in the pockets of her jacket. She lets the change stay there as she takes a shallow sip of the ale. She doesn’t respond in any way, expecting a foul taste, but it turns out to not be that bad. She’s had worse.
The place is deceptively larger than what one may quickly deduce from outside, stretching back, away from the entrance, having a few doors and doorways that lead to other places, as well as a staircase toward the rear that rises up to a partial second floor, more like a very large balcony. She wonders if maybe the guy went there. She also wonders what goes on up there, if it’s any different than down here, and what may be going on beyond the doors. One of them obviously leads to the restroom, but the other, and the open doorway, well, she does not know, and he may have disappeared via either of those.
She decides to play i
t cool, something she feels she has done a poor job of to this point. She takes another sip of her beer, looking at the girls on the stage, trying to act like she is just another customer. If the guy went to any of the more secluded areas, she hopes he’ll have to come back through here eventually.
She then wonders why she followed him at all. What does she hope to discern? She knows there’s a serial killer out there somewhere in the city. Does she think this is him? And if so, why is she putting herself at such risk? She wants to get more evidence of the rampant problem with human trafficking, sexual slavery, and the police’s complicity in that, not single-handedly chase down the serial killer. She’s not the vigilante, and if the information and suppositions she has prove correct, the vigilante is not after the serial killer, either.
So why is she - and there he is, sitting across the room, eyes locked on her.
She has to fight to not visibly react, though her own ocular orbs do widen in shock. She doesn’t move, doesn’t make any other reaction. She now worries of what she ought to do. She should surely look away, but she keeps staring. She blinks, eyes still latched onto him. He does not break the look, does not even see to blink. He is a statue again, though instead of the placid lack of focus, he is quite thoroughly drilled onto her. She also senses some animosity, but she as quickly dismisses that as paranoia.
She finally tears her eyes away, managing to pick up her bottle of beer with a reasonable amount of normalcy, finding herself guzzling quite deeply of it. She sets it down, and when she looks back over, he’s still staring at her, but this time, once the returned gaze is met, he does finally look away, taking his time with it, quite deliberate.
“Ready for another?”
Therese almost starts again, really thinking she is not cut out for this, her eyes snapping over to the waitress, well, a waitress, as this one is yet another of the girl’s at work in here. This one is healthier of flesh, her rather large breasts almost cupping her chin, such are they contained and pressed in and up by her top. She stands there, hip jaunting out, waiting for a response.
“Uuuhh?”
The girl’s penciled eyebrows rise slowly, and she finally pitches, “Want another beer?”
“Where …,” Therese stammers. “Where’s the bathroom?” she asks, knowing full well where it is.
The girl points, “Through that door.”
“Thanks.”
“Want another for when you get back?” the waitress gives another try, but Therese is up and scurrying away, trying not to move too fast, but still looking rather rushed and awkward regardless.
She goes through the door and down the short hallway, through another portal at the end, which is thankfully unlocked, the small bathroom unoccupied, and she shuts the door, locking it. The last thing she needs is some drunk or horny guy coming in here to try to take a piss.
She turns on the cold water, holding her hands under the spigot and splashing water on her face. She looks up in the fractured mirror, taking in slow, deep breaths, trying to get a hold of herself. She likes to play it cool, even handled those guys in the tram station pretty well, but she knows she is out of her element. She needs to calm down. She has no idea if that guy out there has anything at all to do with the serial killings, and if he does, she’s not his type. She just needs to get control of herself and get out of this place.
She’ll go back to Ilona, tell her what she’s been up to, ask for help again. She knows another P.I., too, though she’d rather not work with Macar, the guy always seems to want to get in her pants, but maybe she can exploit that. Yeah, yeah, she’ll get out of here, get some sleep, then try Ilona one more time, and if she still won’t help, she’ll go to Macar. That sounds like a plan.
She instinctively shuts off the light, though just like the door is probably meant to be left unlocked, this is probably expected to be left on, and she exits to a fairly dark hallway. She remembers light in here, but she can make out the lit outline of the door at the end of the passage, part of it obscured.
She almost manages two steps, then she collides with the person in here. She didn’t hear anyone try the door while she was in the bathroom.
She yelps, tensing, “Shit!” and makes to mutter an apology and move to the side and make a beeline to the exit, but she is hit, losing consciousness almost instantly.
She wakes in darkness, though it somewhat dissipates as she focuses, revealing that there is some scant source of light. She feels lost, reeling, lethargic, disoriented. She has trouble even remembering where she is, when, how, even. She takes a very slow blink with her eyes, her lids seeming to prefer staying shut, as though she has to pull them back up with an arch of her brow.
Her head hurts, throbs. She feels like she just wants to lie down and sleep, but as she tries to raise a hand to hold behind her skull where she feels pain, she realizes she is bound. She freezes, a sharp spike of realization like adrenalin, bringing her to greater wakefulness and focus.
She tries to sit up, noting that she is in a small room, on the ground, wrists tied together, arms behind her, ankles also bound. She feels a grittiness to the floor. She tries to calm herself, tries to keep her heart from hammering out of her chest. She looks around, seeing shelves, noting some products on them. She sits in some sort of utility closet, judging from the silhouetted shapes and the somewhat permeating chemical smell.
She is not gagged, so she figures yelling will do her no good. She cannot be sure of that, but she decides to remain silent, trying to take stock of the situation. She’s still dressed. She doesn’t hear the music, so she wonders if she has been moved, or if perhaps the place is now closed, the soundtrack gone silent. She’s been relieved of her small knife. She was not carrying a wallet or any identifying documents of any kind, just some cash. They’ve also taken her cell phone, of course, she can feel the absence of that insubstantial weight. She doesn’t expect she’ll get it back, but she has protective measures in place that will keep any of the data within it from being used against her or others. Still, she supposes she ought to be more worried about her skin than electronic information. She still has an option, and she hopes it will work.
To that end, she curls the fingers of her hands, using all of them to try to brush against that particular place in the lower, center of her left palm. She has a tattoo there, too, a decent-sized, rather intricate design, and beyond its aesthetic and meaning, it helps to hide the implant. She manages to find the end of it, a different texture than her skin, somewhat like an old blister, and she presses into it, hard, harder, and finally she triggers the tiny mechanism. A signal is sent, and when it reaches its destination, a script will run, and a very important message will be delivered, periodically, until receipt is confirmed.
She keeps pressing over the inorganic material there in her palm, toying with it, like a nervous tic, though she knows such is not needed. She’s tested it before, but she’s never had to trigger it for its intended use. It’s a long shot, but she hopes it will work.
She hears footsteps then, growing louder, and before long, it is obvious they are coming toward her.
She hopes it will work and work fast.
*****
The rider has arrived here as quickly as practically possible, taking chances when it proved worth the risk, mostly adhering to traffic law, mostly. There is confidence in the ability to elude the police, if need be, but running from them to get away would be much different than running from them with a specific destination in mind, especially when there is need to be in a very real hurry to arrive at said location.
The place is passed, speed significantly lowered for this surreptitious drive-by, the motorcycle purring. Once done, a secluded, somewhat hidden parking space is found, counter-measures engaged. Hopefully the vehicle will be out here when this is all done. Leaving it where it is holds greater risk than usual, just like this entire outing.
An even more hidden place is located, making sure no one is watching, and then the casual enough looking outfit is changed
for the all-black tactical suit, slipping into it as quickly as possible, the Glock and P90 checked, loaded, ready, handgun holstered at the thigh, suppressed submachinegun strapped tight to the torso, in front, angled downward. Other items are in their respective pockets and pouches, all ready to go, and the figure now moves out of the dark area, a shadow in motion, covering the short distance to the rear of the destination.
It is very early in the morning, just a few hours before dawn, and the place is closed. The driver is not sure if this is a normal time to be shut down, or if it is so due to the prisoner they have inside. There is also very little traffic in the area, but the stillness makes any sound or movement that much more a potential risk.
The figure holds place now outside one of three casement windows in this rear wall, crouched low. A small mobile phone is consulted, the face giving up information on the trace, and yes, as so confirmed, the target is inside. This is not the preferred method of approach, not at all, but expediency is required, so after a peer inside to be sure that at least no one appears in the immediate vicinity, an automatic center punch tool is retrieved, pressing into one of the panels close to the crank until a soft pop is heard, the glass shattering, though staying in place. Muscles tense, ready, but no alarm sounds, no signs of anyone nearby to check on what is going on. The small fissure is then widened with quick, gloved fingers, allowing the hand through to open the window. Deftly, the infiltrator slips through, crouched low again, a quick, nearly silent sweep of motion, P90 pointed. The area looks clear.
Waiting a moment here, in this smaller room, looking about. It seems a mostly unused part of the building, some portion given over to casual storage, a table also showing signs of some use, though it all holds sign of neglect. Noises heard then, coming from outside the room, from within the hallway, two men walking by, glimpsed through the ajar door, dim light seeping in. The vigilante dares to peek out as the guards move further down. They are both armed with holstered handguns, and a stunner is spied attached to the belt of one, also in its own special holster. Exchanged words are heard in passing.
Dance of the Butterfly Page 25
