Dance of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  When she gets to the small, rather recently built warehouse, the gate is open, no guard or any other sort of barrier in place. She figures the metal fence must be to just keep people out at night when the business is closed. She’s done a lot of research on warehouses lately, in her other pursuits, but this one has never been on those lists. She casually wonders what they handle here, but there is really no way to tell. There is also a sign that indicates deliveries should go to the rear, but she figures they mean larger trucks and the sort, so she heads on in the front door.

  The receptionist, if that is what the person is, turns out to be a guy, and he seems much more interested in what sounds like a football match playing on the computer screen. He might be security, but he is not wearing anything that would indicate such. He barely gives her any notice as she informs that she is there to make a delivery, so she waits, then waves the paper at him.

  “Do you want to sign, or is there someone else?”

  “Oh,” he says, still looking at the monitor, “Yes, I will-” He pauses, hands brought up, held tense, ready to turn into fists, and he cries out, “Yes!” giving a short laugh and pump of one fist, before turning back to her, “Delivery?”

  “Yeah,” she says, perking her eyebrows up and looking at the small parcel.

  The guy is somewhat young, probably not yet hit thirty, dark hair, thin, and she sees him taking her in. She has a moment to wonder if he is going to hit on her, already dreading it, but he just looks once at the tiny package then grabs a pen and signs the vellum.

  “Who’s even using paper anymore?” he comments.

  “We are,” she says, though making it more a critique of Cody’s business than being sarcastic.

  “There you go,” he says, and she takes her copy, noticing that the guy is already absorbed back into the game, so she heads out.

  There is a somewhat tall, portly man standing out beside her motorcycle, looking it over, and she wonders what this is about as she gets her key in her hand, positioning it between two fingers to be used as a weapon if need be. He turns as she walks over.

  “This your bike?” he asks.

  She nods.

  “It’s nice, though that motor looks pretty small, but,” he gives a little grin with his leech-like lips, “you’re small. I guess that makes sense.”

  “Yeah,” she mutters, and she wants nothing more than to get on the vehicle and get out of here, but he is in the way.

  “You came here to make the delivery?” he asks, just staring at her, and as she looks up at him, she notices that the clouds are growing grayer and heavier, threatening rain.

  “Yeah,” she gives another flat retort.

  “It was very important,” he comments.

  She just looks at him, not sure what to make of this. She knows it was important. They paid a premium for expediency and to have her as the courier.

  “Yeah, I’ve got others to make today, too, so-,” she begins, and she hears the sound of feet behind her, so she moves to the right, keeping the big guy in view.

  “Hello, Therese,” comes a voice, speaking with a Latin accent, and she turns to see Inspector Duilio from Interpol, a cigarette jutting from his mouth.

  It takes her a moment to remember him. She doesn’t like her name being used. That already sets her on edge, but still, it had been dark, and their seeing of each other had been very short, brief, before the vigilante had sent him into unconsciousness. Her darkly-lined eyes widen.

  “Shit,” she manages, just as she feels the steel embrace of the other man coming in from behind, wrapping her in a bear hug and picking her up off her feet.

  Shit, shit, shit, she repeats to herself, mentally, going through the paltry parts of self-defense she remembers, but she doesn’t know of a way to get out of this. She struggles, but she is no match for the size and strength of Detective Alec Sladky. She tries to use her heavy boots to kick at him, but it proves ineffectual.

  “Calm down,” Duilio says, taking a drag on his cigarette.

  She doesn’t seem inclined to take this advice, still fighting. Alec squeezes, and she grunts out in pain.

  “Come now,” the inspector tries, “We don’t want to hurt you.”

  “How did you find me?” she demands.

  He grins, noting the almost professional pride that has cracked in her having been duped in this manner, and even now, she wants to know those leaks, so she can stop them. He imagines she is somewhat like himself in this way.

  “You know the police are helping us,” he says, giving a brief moment to his smile, almost sincerely apologetic. “We found a very good picture of you from a subway camera. It did not take much more work, then, to find your file. You used to be a ward of the state, and even though Mr. Violin’s work is not entirely legitimate, it is official enough that we learned of your … employment there.”

  He then gives a subtle shrug after this, as though asking for pardon of his own involvement, then he brings his cigarette back to his mouth, inhaling, the tip flaring with brightness.

  “Stop turning me into the fucking damsel in distress,” she grates out.

  He leans in closer, though staying out of range of her feet, turning his head to expel a stream of smoke away from her face, then speaking to her, “Why, Miss Stendahl, that is exactly what you are – the bait. We did not know it the first time, but this time, well … we do.”

  He then gives her a look before finally nodding to Alec who moves his right hand up to cover her mouth, and he carries the slight woman with ease, following Duilio as they leave the area, her muffled cries and continued resistance not helping her in the least.

  *****

  “Two missing detectives …,” the man says, as though the words in his mouth are the most foul food he is being force-fed. “How do you have two .. missing … detectives!?” his frustration bubbles forth at the end as he changes nigh instantly from a calm repose of contemplation to one of tense anger, his emotion funneled out at the man behind the desk.

  “Councilman Keller,” the director begins, maintaining a smooth, calm tone, “I can assure you we are just as upset, if not more so, by the disappearance of Detectives Mahler and Pasztor, and we are concentrating quite intently on finding them and discerning what happened.”

  “I certainly hope so,” the councillor says, eyes still drilling into the bespectacled man, and then after a moment, he backs away, returning his posture to less one of focused intimidation and more of neutrality. “I need information. The pack of wolves is out there waiting for me. You know that, and it’d be you being fed to them if I had not stuck my neck out and made this cause my own,” and he turns those intense eyes back onto the director, “I will not go down because of this.”

  After a moment of very tense silence between the two, the man continues.

  “They went to question this Ernst van Zyl?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Alone. No back-up?”

  “Yes, sir. At the time, Ernst van Zyl was just a person of interest. They did not even have a search warrant, much less an-” and he stops as the other has raised a hand.

  “And now...?” he leads.

  “Well, yes, sir. We’ve questioned the clerk at the hostel, and the detectives were seen going up to van Zyl’s room. And now van Zyl has also disappeared. The room had been quite thoroughly cleaned, but our forensics team found traces of blood.”

  Keller slowly shakes his head, “Nothing from their mobile phones?”

  “No, sir. We’ve found no signals.”

  The councillor nods slowly, contemplating, then, “I trust everyone is on alert. The suspect’s photo has been shared across the entire department?”

  “Yes, sir, we’ve even sent out the information to other agencies, even Interpol.”

  “Ah, right,” he nods, “Interpol … I ought to speak to them directly,” he says as an aside to himself, then re-focusing on the other man. “I want this arrest to be ours, Director. You put a net over this city and you find this Ernst van Z
yl.

  “At least the dead girls have stopped,” he concedes, and the other man gives the barest hint of a nod. “I can throw that bone to them,” and he shakes his head, “Just when it seemed this whole things was getting under control, this happens. Dammit.”

  The director cannot help but feel that this is more an inconvenience to the councilman as opposed to any real sympathy he may feel toward the missing, quite probably dead, detectives. They are out there, scouring the city. They do not take kindly to the murdering of their own. But he sits here, trying to keep his calm, playing the political game that is oft required of him due to this position. But then he sees something in the councillor’s body language that makes him think that maybe the man is taking it more to heart than he had allowed.

  “This is a very big deal, Director,” Keller says, “This is the sort of thing that rocks families, the department, the city. We have to be able to count on our forces here. You protect us. You are supposed to be inviolate. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir. Of course, I do.”

  “Good.” He just looks at the other man, “We carry a heavy weight, Director, a sometimes terrible weight, but we will not falter under it.”

  And so said, he heads out of the office, walking with a determined speed of foot to his next engagement, hearing the milling, hungry crowd as he nears the area that has been designated for the press conference. Some of his own people have gathered in his wake as he quickly moves to the gathering, and the director is not even that far behind.

  There is a quieting to the din as he arrives on the scene, walking unerringly to the platform, his Public Relations Officer ceasing her own talking and silently moving away so he may take the podium. He looks out over the crowd as lights flash and beam at him, indicating still and motion photography focusing on his person, actions, and words. He is used to it.

  He begins explaining the situation, starting with pointing out the success in the reduction of young ladies being found dead in the city, the efforts of the police to thwart the influx of such victims through human trafficking as well as successes in the finding of places that use the women, arrests being made, those businesses shut down. He then moves on, none of his reluctance evident, to the serial killer and the disappearance of the two officers who went to interrogate the suspect. The crowd is chomping at the bit when he finally opens up to questions.

  Even the initial positive point does not hold up long as someone asks that couldn’t it just be that the disposal of the bodies of young ladies has become more effective. The question irks the councillor, as such theoretical often does, and he spends little time on pointing to the futility of such a line. More probing questions arise, and though the man is very good at his job, holding his fortitude and poise, it is obvious there is something terrible going on in the city.

  Skothiam watches the live press conference with rapt attention, having spent a good portion of the day today in his rooms, getting some work done. He finds, though, that he misses going to the library and spending the day with Lilja. She had gone into work, of course, not wanting anything to look out of the ordinary, so they have spent the time apart. It has distracted him somewhat, as his thoughts often turn to her.

  He has not bothered to yet call his mother, worrying she might advise him to just leave now that he has the book, just take it. He will not do that. Formal, legal acquisition of the book is still a complicated situation. Lilja does not even have a say in something like that. But the things his mother pointed out to him are weighing on his mind. There is something going on in the city, something more than just these two rival families trying to get the book. He now greatly worries over what that may fully entail.

  He watches the councillor closely. This is the man his mother wants them to help, even though he likely would never know how much they would aid him. This is the man his mother wants indebted to them, so they might use him as leverage to get the book. Skot sees a power there, and he can easily tell why Keller has done well in his career. The man has promise, ambition. It might be a good idea to get him as something of an ally, but he’d rather have a sincere compatriot, not someone manipulated into their grace.

  And now it seems probable that the serial killer has added two law enforcement officers to the tally. Skot sighs, shaking his head slightly. He knows the negative forces are merely growing in this city, coiling about, putting a shadow, a fog, over the area. This will not have a good outcome if it is not somehow thwarted, dissipated properly.

  He still has not heard back from Nicole, which bothers him more now than usual. She often is very difficult to catch, and it is not out of the ordinary for her to take some time to get back to him, but now, with this brewing, boiling even, he feels more desperate to speak to her. He also gives thought to his mother’s suggestion that he get more help here. He could phone David and get him en route quickly. His cousin always seems ready to drop everything and help when the family is in need, his wife very supportive, even helping out when she is able to contribute.

  He mulls this, looking back over at the screen, listening as the members of the media hammer into the councillor. He handles it well, not cowed but very accepting, as though the civil services deserve some of this reaction and interrogation by the very public they purport to serve.

  The conference finally ends, and he shuts off the television, getting back to work, opening the tome to a place he had noted with a leather bookmark, though with much less eagerness than usual. His thoughts, of course, go to her. He glances at his phone to check the time. He suspects she should have ended her work day by now, but he has received no message from her. It could, of course, mean nothing, but with recent developments, worry claims him. He picks up his phone, about to send her a message, when it buzzes forth, the dark screen rousing with a message from her.

  He reads it with no sense of small relief, as she explains that her day went well, no questions, no untoward visits from any curious parties. She says nothing of any talks or interactions she may have had with her assistant. He presumes that Miss Honeycutt noticed the missing book today and informed Denman. Perhaps it will prove a benefit, as Denman may think it an opportunity to acquire the book, busying himself with discerning to which cleaner it has been shipped.

  She also mentions feeling tired, stressed out by the recent events, and that she plans to just go home and relax. She’ll be available via her phone or computer, of course, but she just wants some rest. He will not begrudge her that. This must be a much bigger deal than she is ever used to having to handle. He’ll do his best to not fret, and leave her be.

  Some hours pass, and he has managed to lose himself in his work, the remnants of a meal nearby. He has not plumbed anymore direct clues to the nature of the contents, but he has gotten deep into some allegorical history, mythology, and he finds it fascinating. It also seems to perhaps verify some of his family’s own conclusions, but he wonders how much he may be manipulating his own interpretations. These are symbols, forms, and he must be wary how he lets them filter through his own perceptions.

  It is then that the beeping interrupts him, and he looks over to his computer, noting that one of the ‘checks’ he put in place after his phone conversation with his mother has had its alarm triggered. Before he can fully bring up the information, another alarm goes off, then another, and soon, the monitor of his laptop is blinking in several places.

  Anxiety claims his features, though he does retain some calm, his fingers flying rapidly over the keyboard, then one hand going to the mouse. He executes another program, some quick analysis from the sudden influx of data, and a particular spot of the city reveals itself, the coloration provided by the filter indicating a vibrant red.

  “Shit,” he says.

  He takes some short minutes to change clothes, fire off some messages, and put on his shoulder harness, making ready his loaded Walther P99, the two spare magazines also filled and held on the opposing side of the holster. He then shrugs a jacket over this, not wanting to be detoured b
y unwanted attention before he even reaches his destination, and grabbing his cane, he heads out in an obvious hurry.

  *****

  Everything has been properly prepared, laid out atop the short table, the surface covered in a dark cloth. The air holds a charge of incense as the person here kneels, knees somewhat tucked under the piece of furniture, an aspect one of respect, meditation. Amidst the smaller items, a sheathed katana rests across the entirety of the tabletop’s length, as though the dimension has been customized especially for it.

  The tsuba is designed to appear as two butterflies, their wings going up, the tips of each pair delicately touching so as to form an encirclement. The artwork is fine, eloquent, the ridged bodies of the insects stretching back, various lines and curves going out to give more detail to the spread and flow of the large wings. The fuchi shows more intricate work as curves and coils and stretches of delicately detailed metal surround the handle like overlapping currents of stylized air or the flow of water. A similar pattern is shown at the kashira, though this looks more indicative of a firmness like the precisely tilled soil of a rounded hill. The tsuka-ito is black, matching the general overall dark coloring of the sword and its sheath.

  Then holding the weapon with care and reverence, the blade is pulled forth smoothly from its saya, the scabbard set aside, vertically, over the shorter width of the covered surface. The right hand is kept about the hilt as the left picks up one of the small white cloths arranged nearby. Taking care of the sharp edge, the material is wiped over the moderately curved length, paying close attention even at the blunt no-hi edge. Once completed, the uchiko ball is picked up, and slowly tapped along the length of the blade, depositing its powder in small puffs. This is done carefully, slowly, also along the top, and the other side, the right hand sure and deft in its grip and handling. Another cloth is used to clean the powder away, its purpose having been to pick up and allow the removal of any residual oil. Now cleaned, exposed, bare, the sword will be anointed anew, and a final cloth is picked up, already doused with a small amount of choji oil, and it is drawn along the sword, leaving a thin coating.