Dance of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  “He’s nearby now,” says one, putting away a cell phone.

  “Hmph, well, too bad for her, hmm?” the other replies, giving forth a rumbling chuckle which is not returned.

  They turn, heading through a door and back toward the front. Another short moment is taken, waiting, listening, then the darkly-garbed figure moves into the passageway, going the direction from which they came, carried upon quick, silent steps, covering the distance carefully. The bend is taken after a quick peek to be sure no one else is down that way, and this short distance ends in another chamber larger than the one which was used for entry, though a quick peering with goggles in the darkness shows movable racks of clothing along with mirrored stations and even some small sections on one side for the hanging and storage of clothes – an obvious room for changing and making one’s self ready.

  There is no one else in here, but there is another door, and a quick consulting of the mobile phone confirms that the signal originates from behind it.

  There is no window, but there is enough space for the fiberscope, and the snake-like device is slipped in. There, sitting in near total darkness, is a bound person, mouth now gagged with some dark material that has been stuffed inside, eyes peering about, and she seems simmering in a mingling of fear and anger. An angling of the camera shows that it appears the door is not wired with any alarm or trap, so the vigilante pulls the probe back.

  The door is opened, some meager illumination from the hallway coming in. The rescuer moves in quickly.

  “Message received,” is all that is said, the words coming out in a gruff, forced whisper, as the vigilante moves with sureness in the darkness, goggles still over the eyes, pulling forth the simple and rugged military knife to cut through the bonds, saving removal of the gag for last.

  “Holy shit. You came,” is blurted into the quiet, and though it is not yelled, it is loud.

  “Ssshh,” comes the response.

  “I can’t see,” Therese whispers, very low.

  She feels as her hand is grabbed, then guided to a rigid canvas strap. She holds on as her rescuer, who obviously can see, leads the way out. She tries to be quiet, but she seems to be making all the noise as they head forth, her clunky boots shuffling and creaking as she walks. Then other noises arise, and the vigilante picks up the pace, pulling Therese to the other room.

  “Stop!” shouts a voice, and they are seen just as they duck through the doorway.

  Therese is whirled about as the figure turns. She manages to hold onto what is obviously a combat harness, then her rescuer reaches back, giving a sign to let go. The other points, jabbing a gloved index finger at her then toward the corner, then pointing down with all four fingers. Therese takes this to mean that she ought to get back there and hide, so she does. She is just in time, as rushing footsteps result in the two guards from before bursting into the room.

  It all happens very quickly, and Therese peeks up enough to watch the whole thing as best she can in the dim lighting. The first guard rushes in, pistol held forward, both hands wrapped about the grip. There is a chaotic movement of dark shapes, some glistening reflections of metal, stunted shouts, dull thuds, nothing at all like one may be inclined to expect from over-dramatized action films.

  The vigilante moves in front of the guard, using the first man as something of a shield, the second coming in with the stunner held at the ready. The guy’s gun is forced upwards, in a direction away from where Therese hides. A few more hits are heard, movement seen in the darkness, though the intruder is smaller and nearly invisible within the all-encompassing suit. The gun has been removed from the man’s hands, the other coming around, sparking the stunner to life.

  The vigilante is fast, very fast, and another duck, shuffling sound of quick feet and a push, and the first man is shoved toward his colleague, resulting in the wrong person receiving the shock. The man tenses, though his partner releases the trigger, but enough damage is done, and the man’s weight falls toward his fellow, aided by a quick side kick from the figure.

  The vigilante moves with the falling pair, scrambling over them, much more in control, and a quick stomp is delivered to the one sentry’s wrist. He grunts out in pain, not the least of which comes from the weight of his comrade, and the intruder rises up with the stunner in hand, springing it to life long enough to deliver further shocks to both, causing a settling shift to the bundle of men, weak moans emerging from them.

  The device is then tossed aside as quickly as it is used, the P90 taken in sure hands as the vigilante whirls, taking a low shooting stance, pointing the submachinegun expertly at the doorway and the other person standing there, the laser sight flicking on, settling on the man’s sternum.

  “Don’t shoot!” he calls out, holding out both hands, arms extended, palms out, “Please, please,” he begs, “I am not a threat.”

  He speaks with a Latin accent.

  The two lock eyes for a moment, a deep degree of study there. Calmly, still holding the P90 locked on target, the left hand retrieves the electroshock weapon from its small pouch, pointing it.

  “No, wa-!” the man tries, but the trigger is pulled, the electrodes flying out, hitting him, the shock delivered, and Inspector Duilio of Interpol crumbles.

  The vigilante moves rapidly, collecting the prongs, reeling in the wires to reset and holster the device, glancing at the disoriented man, then turning to Therese, gesturing an unquestionable message with the jerk of a hand, pointing to the window, then heading there to use it.

  She follows, scurrying out from her hiding place, taking the proffered aid to get up and through the opening. The figure seems to not need this, springing easily through. Now outside, Therese looks the person over.

  “You’re as small as I am,” she notices.

  Another quick jerk of the hand, unmistakable, and the figure scurries off, Therese following. The pack is retrieved from its hiding place, and then they move to the motorcycle.

  “Oh, wow, this is nice,” Therese comments, looking over the black bike.

  Still silent, the rider secures the pack, weapons now unloaded and safely inside, then gets on the vehicle, firing up the quiet, purring engine, looking expectantly at Therese.

  “Oh! Right,” the hacker starts, blinking, then climbs on behind, the two speeding off to safety.

  Chapter Twelve

  Frustration runs high with Detectives Pasztor and Mahler. Not only does the captain want very regular updates, but the director sometimes comes straight to them, and they know he is adding their progress as part of his own status reports to Councillor Keller. A high profile case like this can make or break a career.

  They were poised to think they were onto a good opportunity when the call came in about the double murder at the ‘Lovers’ Lane’ parking lot. Patrols convened quickly, scouring the area. The scene had been very fresh, but nothing had resulted regarding the “eyewitness” account of the suspect. They have decided to re-visit this, talking to each and every patrol group who had been there. The work is tedious, but they know that such careful prospecting can occasionally yield a glimmer.

  They’ve been at it for hours, on this the second day of such work, when they get to the current pair.

  “Yeah, the guy looked suspicious enough, and we would have probably asked him more questions, but he didn’t fit the description.”

  “Well, we’re beginning to wonder how accurate that description is,” Mahler relays, and the two patrol officers look back at him, inquiry in their eyes. “The witness saw a black male running from the area. The witness did not see this individual kill anyone or even directly interact with the victims. It’s possible this person happened on the bodies, maybe even saw the murders, and then ran away. We’re hoping to find him, of course, but he may not be our killer.”

  The other two nod, taking this in, then the original speaker continues.

  “This guy looked high,” he resumes, “Not all there, hmm?”

  “Physical description?” Mahler asks, pen po
ised over his notebook.

  “Caucasian. Tall, very thin, but that was judged from his face. He was obviously slender, his clothes kind of baggy.”

  “What color hair, eyes?”

  “He had on a hoodie,” the other offers.

  Pasztor tries to help, “Did you see his eyebrows? Facial hair?”

  “He was kind of scraggly, unshaven, but not a full beard or anything, but yeah, now that you say that, it almost seemed like he didn’t have any eyebrows at all.”

  “So, they were shaved, or he had light blonde hair.”

  “Oh, very light blonde. Really pale blue eyes, too. He said he was from South Africa.”

  “He did?” Mahler peers up from his pad.

  “Yes, I asked his name and where he was from,” then he looks at his partner, “What was his name?”

  The two ponder a moment, then the other muses, “Erik … was it? Erick … something with a Z.”

  “South African white guy?” Pasztor throws in, “Van something? A lot of their last names have van in it.”

  “Yes!” the first jumps in, “That was it – Ernst, not Erick, Ernst van Zyl.”

  Mahler jots this down, nodding, “Good, good, so he was tall, thin, light blonde hair, pale blue eyes.” Then he looks as the officers, desirous of more.

  “He looked ill,” one of them says, “His face was very bony, prominent, sunken in.”

  And this sets off its own bulb, and the two detectives look at each other. Pazstor reaches for a folder, pulling out papers, leafing through them, just as Mahler grabs an electronic notepad, going through its contents rather quickly. The two patrol officers share an inquisitive look, then silently watch the detectives.

  “Here it is,” Pazstor declares, gesturing with a piece of paper, just as Mahler is nodding, coming to the end of his own search.

  “Yes, yes,” he says, still looking at the device, “A person with a matching description was seen at one of the victim’s places of work the same night she was murdered. The two interacted, though no one could say if they left together.”

  Then the detectives look at the other two. It takes a moment, but under such scrutiny, the patrol officers both slowly tense, eyes widening a bit.

  “We were looking for a large black male. That was the description given from dispatch.”

  “This guy was at both places,” Mahler says. “You may have been talking to our serial killer.”

  “Shit!” one declares.

  “Eh,” Pasztor grunts, “We have a name to go with the description. We’ll find him now.”

  “Yes, we will,” Mahler agrees, then looking at the other two, “Thank you, gentlemen.”

  *****

  He walks up to see her bent into the engine of her car, black sweatpants pulled over the contours of her lower body from her extended position, the vehicle parked in the small, private garage she has rented to go along with her apartment. He is expected, but it seems she has not heard his approach. He takes a moment to admire the shape of her as her petite form is half-disappeared from his approaching view.

  “Hello,” he calls out.

  “Oh! Skot,” she replies, still under the hood, “One moment.”

  He smiles warmly, nodding, as if she could see, “Okay.”

  She finishes up, rising, turning to him as she grabs a nearby towel, wiping her hands. She is wearing a loose t-shirt, her hair tied and held up with a cloth headband. She smiles brightly, oblivious of the black mark on her right cheek, rising up on tiptoes as he steps nearer, and they exchange a kiss.

  She hums into it, and he returns the sound, then she settles back onto her feet, smirking playfully up at him.

  “Were you looking at my butt?” she teases, giving a rakish shift of her hips.

  He perks his eyebrows, “Yes, I was,” he admits.

  She gives him more of that smirk, then leans in and up for another kiss.

  “Though now I am noticing that mark on your cheek,” he says.

  “Oh,” she says, reaching up to her face.

  “Other side,” he says, grinning, and she brings up the rag, wiping it somewhat away. “So, how is it going?” he looks over at the exposed engine of the BMW.

  “Fine,” she says, “Just checking the oil and changing the spark plugs. What have you got there?”

  He brings up the plastic bag in his right hand, “I brought you something to drink.”

  “Oh?” she responds as he fishes out a plastic bottle of Gatorade, presenting it to her. “Thank you,” her smile warms as she accepts it, “This is meant to be drank during a hard exercise, to compensate the loss of electrolytes you get while sweating. This,” she nods toward the straight-4 DOHC piston engine, “isn’t really that hard,” then, with a grin, she pops the cap of the bottle, taking a good sip of it, “Thank you.”

  He notes the sheen to her flesh.

  “It’s still quite warmer than usual for this time of year, isn’t it?”

  She nods, swallowing, then drinking more, finally replacing the cap, “Yeah,” she confirms, then looks about for a place to set the bottle, and he holds out his hand, and she places the drink there with a light, gracious smile.

  He watches as she gets back to work, noting the sureness and focus as she resumes her task.

  “I’ve never changed my own spark plugs before,” he comments.

  She glances up at him, smiling, “No? Why not? It’s not that difficult.”

  He shrugs, “I just never have. I’m not really that adept with automobiles.”

  “I like taking care of it myself,” she says, “If something’s wrong, I do research, and I fix it. I’ve never taken this one to a mechanic. That’s one of the things I like about this older model. I can handle it myself.”

  He just watches, smiling, until she rises up for another short breather, and he hands her the bottle.

  “Thanks,” she says, that casual smile still on her lips.

  As she has another drink, he moves in closer, slipping his hand to the small of her back, pressing her inward and leaning down for a closer, deeper kiss. She returns it, but as he brings his hand to her waist, getting in nearer, she pulls back, her grin widened to show teeth, the bottom lip barely caught there.

  “I’m all sweaty,” she informs.

  “I don’t mind.”

  “I do,” she chuckles, “Let me finish.”

  “Is that an order?” he perks his eyebrows.

  “No,” she purses her lips, a playful pout, “May I finish, please?” she asks, throwing in a teasing, coquettish air.

  “How could I refuse that?” he grins, “Of course, you may.”

  He watches, gone back to holding the bottle for her, then he meanders toward the open doorway, peering out, noting a few people going to and fro in the parking lot, some vehicular traffic, though not much. He can hear the nearby sounds of the city.

  “Have you been following the news about the serial killer?” he asks.

  “Yes,” she calls out, her answer taking a bit to arise, “Have you?”

  “Some,” he remarks, then he turns, working his way slowly back toward her, again letting his eyes drink in the sight, “Terrible enough as it is, but to prey on unfortunate girls like that.”

  “Not just girls,” she says, “There was a man killed in the last one.”

  “Yes, the recent double murder, but I suspect he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the girl was the main target. She suffered much worse treatment. And the others … just gutted like that. It’s horrible to think about.”

  She rises up, wiping her hands, peering at him in a particular way. He hands her the bottle, and she drinks more, holding onto it this time.

  “Yes, it’s terrible,” she agrees, “To think a human being could do that to another.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t a human,” he pitches.

  “What?” she furrows her brow, looking at him. “What makes you say that?”

  “Oh, nothing,” he is quick to reply, “Just thinking out loud. B
esides, the wounds certainly seem like they could have just as easily been made with claws as a bladed weapon.”

  She stares at him, though he doesn’t notice. She certainly does not linger on it, else she’d likely garner his attention, but she wonders why he has said this. Why make a comparison to the use of claws and the killings perhaps having been caused by something non-human? She wonders if it is mere conjecture or something more. She does not recall anything in the typical news outlets that have made any allusions to such as that.

  “I suppose it’s possible that the killer does not think he is human,” he continues his musing.

  “I don’t know,” she finally says, her own eyes off now on other thoughts, her right hand holding the bottle close to her mouth, uncapped, but she just sort of presses the tip against her bottom lip, not drinking more as yet, then she glances up, seeing that he is looking at her, and she gives a grin, “I’m not a profiler.”

  “Neither am I,” he admits, “But I’ve read a bit on it, and I did take some courses on Criminal Psychology when I was in college. Of course, that doesn’t qualify me, and I am just reaching at threads, making conversation.”

  She nods, contemplatively, “The whole thing is sad, really.”

  “Hmm?” he gently pushes, raising his eyebrows, still looking at her as she has gone into her thoughts.

  She looks up at him, her large eyes drinking in the available light, the tip of the bottle still held at her lower lip, though the grin is now gone for a look of seriousness.

  “The human trafficking,” and he nods his agreements as she adds, “I wish there was something more that could be done.”

  “Yes, it’s terrible,” he says, looking at her, then away as he drifts into his own musing, “It’s unfortunate that that sort of negative action still goes on. There are many ways to satisfy one’s need for ‘vice’, so to speak, that does not involve causing such pain. Don’t people give any thought to what it does to generate such negative energy? It doesn’t just disappear. There are repercussions.”