Ink

by Jonathan Maberry

  “You tell me a horror story about a mother losing her child in the worst possible way, and about how the tattoo of her daughter smiling is her lifeline, but that doesn’t really square with her defacing the tattoo and claiming she doesn’t have a daughter at all. Or, at least has no memory of anyone named Tuyet. Any thoughts on that?”

  Monk turned back. “Yeah. I think she drank a whole case of beer and got stupid shitfaced, hit her head on something in the bathroom, and is pretty damn messed up overall.” He leaned forward. “Let me ask you something, Crow. You have anyone you’d do anything for? I mean absolutely anything? Take a bullet for? Not because you’re a cop but because the person with a bull’s-eye on them matters more than your life, your pain?”

  Shadows moved like ghosts behind the police chief’s eyes. “Yes.”

  Monk nodded. “So don’t ask me why I took that hit rather than let Patty do any more damage to herself.”

  It took a moment, but Crow gave him a small nod.

  Monk said, “You have any kids?”

  “I had four,” said Crow very softly. “Two died.”

  “Oh … fuck, man, I’m sorry. I hope they went out cleaner than what happened to Tuyet.”

  Crow said nothing. The ghosts were still there in his blue eyes.

  “My point is,” continued Monk, “that there’s nothing and no one in this world matters more to Patty than Tuyet. She kisses that picture every morning when she wakes up and before she goes to sleep. She talks to it—to her—because it’s all she has of her baby. What do the MRIs say?”

  “That she has a mild contusion consistent with a fall. No skull fracture and no concussion.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “X-ray and CT scan confirm.”

  Monk stared at him. “I…” he began but had nowhere to go with that. Then he cleared his throat. “Am I under arrest, Chief?”

  Crow took a moment, then said, “Not at the moment.”

  “I saw a lady cop in the hall. My guess is you had her in with Patty. Why don’t you go talk to her? Ask her what Patty actually said. Then either come back and arrest me or give me my shit back and let me go about my business.”

  As if on cue the female officer tapped on the door. Crow crossed to her and stood watching Monk as the officer spoke quickly and quietly in his ear.

  While he waited, Monk thought about the chief. The man was small and somewhere in his fifties, but he had the look. The kinds of scars that come from conflict. If the scars were older Monk would have pegged him as a welterweight boxer or wrestler. All-State or maybe Golden Gloves. A tough little monkey who grew up rough. But the facial scars were relatively new, maybe earned in the last twenty years. Maybe from the Trouble. There were also calluses on the man’s knuckles, the heels of his palms, and the edges of both hands. Those calluses were old, suggesting a lot of years in the martial arts. Since the knuckle calluses were the least defined, Monk pegged Crow for a student of one of the open-handed styles, like maybe jujitsu or aikido, or one of the animal styles of kung-fu. Mantis or Eagle. There was no bullshit bravado or dick measuring. This gun knew he was tough and had no need to sell that to potential bad guys. He was one to watch.

  Crow came back and sat, blowing out his cheeks. He was no longer smiling.

  “How’s Patty?” asked Monk before Crow could speak.

  “She’s being admitted for observation. Her blood alcohol level is exceptionally high, but she’s also dehydrated. Borderline malnutrition, too.”

  “Yeah, well, Patty’s been dealing with anorexia for a long time,” said Monk.

  Crow nodded. “Doctor says the wounds look self-inflicted, so we’ll put her on suicide watch for a day, and maybe two. Does she have a regular therapist?”

  “No.”

  “Family?”

  “Two sisters back in ’Nam she doesn’t talk to. Not even birthday cards. Some cousins in the Bronx she never talks to. No one else.”

  “A friend we can call?”

  “You’re looking at him.”

  Crow nodded. “You understand that I’m going to check you out, Mr. Addison? If I get even a whiff of anything suggesting abusive behavior—”

  “Yeah, I get it. You’ll send some cops to arrest me.”

  “Not exactly. If I come to the opinion that you are responsible for what happened to that woman,” said Crow quietly, “I’ll pay you a visit myself.”

  There was no trace of a smile at all. Crow was half his size and nearly twenty years older, but his eyes chalked the odds on the slate.

  Crow put a foot against the edge of the coffee table and pushed it three inches toward Monk. “You’re free to go.”

  “I’d rather stay right here.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” said Crow. “Leave a cell number.”

  Monk digested that, then took a business card from his wallet and handed it over. Crow glanced at it, nodded, and tucked it in his pocket.

  With that Chief Crow stood, gave Monk a tiny nod, and went out.

  Monk sat for a moment, staring at the empty doorway.

  “Yeah,” Monk said softly, “welcome to fucking Pine Deep.”

  53

  Owen Minor stood in a patch of sunlight that leaned into the room. He liked the feel of the smile that twisted his lips.

  Outside was a beat-up old car with a U-Haul trailer attached. Out-of-town plates. A man stood on the pavement staring at the car and everything about his body language spoke of anger and tension.

  Owen checked to make sure no one was looking at him and then reached up under his shirt, worming his finger along belly flesh until he touched his sternum. He could feel something there. Something new.

  And … something different.

  Wriggling like maggots through his skin.

  He couldn’t wait to get off work so he could go home and find out what it was.

  54

  Monk looked at his U-Haul and car. They were exactly where he’d left them. Locks were locked, everything appeared normal. Except nothing was normal in this damn town. He didn’t even need to actually poke around to know that cops had already had a look. Smart, careful cops. This Chief Crow continued to impress and piss Monk off in equal measures.

  He knew nothing would be missing.

  “Asshole,” muttered Monk, but he didn’t really mean that. Or, more accurately, he wasn’t sure. Crow could be a semi-corrupt small-town cop breaking rules because he liked being in charge and in the know. Or … Crow could actually give a shit about what had happened to a single woman living alone in his town. Either motive would explain the way Crow had kept the conversation going so his people could search the car and trailer. If it was the former, if Crow was a bad guy, then he was going to be a pain in the ass and maybe a real problem.

  If it was the latter, then Monk would have to be careful not to become an actual problem. Crow was a small man, but he had very big power. What Patty called big energy. Tiger energy.

  “Mucho cuidado,” he told himself.

  A rustle made him turn and look up. The birds were still there. Nightbirds looked different during the day. Less sinister, more vulnerable, somehow. Like old men who wanted to help but were aware they were past their physical prime.

  Monk nodded to them, not sure why he did it.

  One of the birds opened its mouth and made a low sound. Not a caw. More like a cough. Somewhere in a part of the sky Monk couldn’t see, thunder rumbled in an “I’m not done with you yet” kind of way. He turned up the collar of his leather jacket, got behind the wheel, and drove home.

  INTERLUDE TEN

  THE LORD OF THE FLIES

  Owen Minor drove to the tattoo parlor where Malibu Mark worked, but it was a bust. The studio was high end and did not take walk-ins. The receptionist, a tiny woman named Tink who was covered in some of the best ink Owen had ever seen in person, was a little snooty and asked why he hadn’t called to book a session. Owen lied and said that he didn’t know the rules because he’d never gotten a tattoo before. In tru
th, he didn’t want his phone number in their records.

  Tink’s attitude defrosted a few degrees and she patiently explained the process and went over the cost structure. He made an appointment to come back and gave her the number to a disposable cell, a burner. He was already being cautious, following the rules of safety and anonymity he’d learned from reading crime novels and watching true-crime shows.

  Waiting the eleven days for his appointment was excruciating. His imagination went into overdrive, swerving into deep desire and gut-twisting paranoia. He kept expecting a knock on the door and some kind of cop or agent to barge in. Some Scully and Mulder thing; taking him into custody for crimes that were on no books, but for which he’d be locked away forever. Or sent to some freaky government lab where they would study him, take samples, dehumanize and enslave him, forcing him to do some kind of spooky spy shit. Or, one of his victims would have tracked him down somehow, and come to cut his heart out for what he’d done. Not that Owen felt a flicker of remorse for what he was doing. No. None at all. He wouldn’t have this gift if it wasn’t meant for him to use. As he saw it, this was no different than someone being born with a beautiful voice breaking hearts by singing sad songs. No different than a soldier pulling a trigger because he was a natural killer.

  In the moments when he was not filled with fear, he was turned on far beyond his ability to masturbate his way to a calm space. Even when he jerked himself raw on his third or fourth orgasm in a single night. He thought about how it would feel to devour the dreams of someone like Charles Manson or Ted Bundy. It was a rush reading about them, but to be them in dreams? Holy fuck.

  One of his victims had been a biker who’d stomped a gay teenager to death after paying the kid twenty bucks for a blowjob. That had been a real head trip. All those complex emotions—the biker’s desire, his shame and anger, his rage and the heartbreak he felt way down deep because he wanted to be the boy he was killing. Those memories were so powerful, and sunk deep into the biker’s soul via a tattoo that was a straightaway on a long desert highway. The road was straight, but the biker was twisted. The ink was intended as a statement—straight as the endless highway, blah blah blah—but in his alone times that biker clamped a hand over the image and crumpled onto his shower floor, weeping, praying to God, begging forgiveness. Only when he was drunk, only when he was alone.

  The days passed and finally it was time to see Malibu Mark.

  The artist looked like Uncle Fester from the old Addams Family movies, except for wildly hairy Einstein eyebrows. He gave Owen an up and down inspection that was so penetrating it felt like rape. Owen couldn’t read his face, but there was some kind of magic in the man’s eyes. Like he knew on some level. When he spoke, though, his words and tone were low-key, normal.

  “Your first?” asked Malibu Mark.

  “Y-yes,” said Owen, stumbling over it.

  “How’d you hear about me?”

  “There was an article in Tattoo Master.”

  “Oh,” said the artist, sounding vaguely disappointed, “yeah. So … you have anything in mind?”

  “I want to start small, you know? See if I like it?”

  “Sure.” Another layer of disappointment.

  “I want a fly.”

  “Like a zipper?”

  “No, the insect.” Although the memories of his first stolen tattoo were gone, the image of the actual ink was there in his mind. And he had dozens of photos of it taken that first night with his cell camera. Even a video of him holding his hand up and turning it this way and that. Owen had studied the vine and leaves, but they were of little interest. He thought the mantis was too stuck-up looking, and he had no interest in bees. The fly, though … that one caught his eye. He’d done an image search online and found out that it was a blowfly. Properly, a Calliphoridae, and sometimes called a carrion fly, bluebottle, greenbottle, or cluster fly. He preferred blowfly, though. It had a certain charm to it. Shakespeare was the very first writer to use that name, in Love’s Labour’s Lost, and later in The Tempest.

  Owen dug his phone out of his pocket and showed several pictures of that insect, saved from nature websites.

  “Just that?” asked Malibu Mark.

  “For now, yes.”

  “Okay … but it’s not going to take very long time. Couple hours, tops. Sure you don’t want something bigger, more of a statement piece?”

  “No,” insisted Owen, “just the fly. And I want it here.” He pushed up his sleeve and touched a spot on his forearm near the crease. “A big one. Life-size.”

  “Cartoon or real?”

  “Photo-real.”

  Malibu Mark studied him for a moment, and Owen was never sure what he thought or what he read, but he nodded and explained the procedures, the costs, and everything Owen needed to know as a first-timer.

  Owen had read up on what to expect and watched endless YouTube videos. Even so, he was surprised how much it hurt.

  He was not at all surprised at how good that felt.

  55

  Malcom Crow lifted a single blind and watched Monk Addison pull away from the curb. When the car vanished in the distance he let the blind drop and left the doctor’s lounge and drifted up to the injured woman’s room, to where one of his officers, Kait, sat guard outside.

  He indicated the patient on the other side of the door with an uptick of his chin. “She say anything?”

  “Not a lot,” said Kait. “Keeps telling everyone who goes in that she’s fine, it was all an accident and that she wants to go home.”

  “Accident,” said Crow, and sniffed eloquently.

  “It’s weird, Crow, ’cause I talked a bit with Dr. Argawal and he said that the bruises on her face are the wrong size and angle for someone to have whaled on her. He thinks they’re self-inflicted. Said he can’t pin down who inflicted the other stuff, but it’s likely she did those, too.”

  “What about that smiley face tattoo on her hand?” asked Crow. “The one over the one that’s kind of faded.”

  “She says she did that herself while drunk. You believe that?” asked Kait.

  “Not sure what I believe, yet.”

  “Sure, but she’s supposed to be this top pro tattoo artist and that new tat looks like it was done by a five-year-old.”

  “Five or thereabouts,” murmured Crow vaguely.

  “Definitely not what a pro would do is my point,” said Kait. “Like maybe someone did that to her.”

  “Yeah,” said Crow, “that had occurred to me, too.”

  “It’s messed up, either way.”

  “Yup.”

  They looked at the closed door to the private room.

  “I’m heading back to the office,” Crow said after a few moments. “Call me if there’s anything. Oh, and Ms. Trang’s friend, the big guy with the tats? He doesn’t get in. Nobody tells him anything, not even the time of day, until I decide it’s cool.”

  “He our bad guy?” asked Kait, lifting an eyebrow and revealing a predatory gleam in her brown eyes.

  “To be determined.”

  She cocked her head. “Horseback guess?”

  Crow smiled, and as he often did, turned the question around. “What’s your call?”

  Kait was in her mid-thirties and had—as she called it during her interview for the job—“been around the block a time or two.” She was on the hopeful side of cynical and had good reasons not to like most men. Even so, she shook her head.

  “I talked to him for only a second,” she admitted. “But he asked darn near everyone in the ER staff about Ms. Trang. Could be concern for a friend, but…” She shrugged. “He’s guilty of something, but I don’t know if it’s this.”

  “Bad guy?”

  “Dangerous,” said Kait after some thought. “A little scary, too.”

  Crow nodded. “That’s my read, too. Stay sharp and pass along what I said to Cooper when he comes on shift.”

  “Gotcha, boss.”

  Crow left the hospital and stepped out into the sunligh
t. There was a well of golden light spilling down through a ring of clouds that—so far—was hanging back. Crow didn’t trust those clouds even a little.

  The police station was only three blocks away, so he walked. He had a slight limp from some old damage to his hips and lower back. No amount of physical therapy could edit it out, so he settled into the pace that didn’t aggravate it. The day was lovely and cool, and despite the heavy rains last night the trees hadn’t been stripped of their leaves. That was something he loved about Pine Deep. The same storm in Doylestown or Easton or Hatboro would have punched all the autumn colors from the trees, giving everything a faux-winter appearance. But not in Pine Deep. No, here those leaves—the reds and oranges and yellows in ten thousand subtle shades—held on well into November. The riot of colors was breathtaking, and he never got used to it. Never became jaded by it. There was something about those colors that stoked the furnace of his optimism.

  Faces peered at him through the windows of the stores along Corn Hill. A lot of them were new, but there were enough longtime residents to make him feel less like an outsider in his own town, which had started to be a thing. The population of Pine Deep was in a strange flux. Before the Trouble there had been close to twenty thousand people, divided between town and the farms. Like a lot of farming communities, the square acreage of the town was out of proportion to the population density. Those twenty thousand lived in an area a good deal larger than Manhattan, which gave the area a small-town feel. Then there was the Trouble; 11,641 people died, more than half the population of the town, marking it as the worst disaster in American history. Since then many of the surviving residents had moved elsewhere. Anywhere but Pine Deep, leaving barely four thousand to rebuild.

  Since then, the town had come back to life a bit, like a cancer patient. Remissions and relapses. Three years ago the members of the new Fringe community started moving in, and in considerable numbers, though the overall population was still less than five thousand. They brought money and youth and energy. Good for the financial well-being of the town, but they were all outsiders, and some of them were extreme. The townies—known familiarly as the locals—were hard sells when it came to anything new and different.