Department 18 [02] Night Souls

by Maynard Sims

  The darkness disappeared beneath the bed and out of sight.

  There was a stench in the room. As if something that had been dead a long time had resurfaced. Rotting fish, diseased flesh.

  Carter held his breath. By straining his neck up a couple of inches he could see over the end of the bed. He could see the layer of darkness there, thin and misty, like piles of dust swept against the wall. As he watched, the layer began to rise like a pillar at first. But then as it was about six feet in the air, it opened out, like a flower in summer. It opened until it had a density about it. It opened until it had a recognizable shape. The shape of a man but not as distinct.

  From the ceiling black shapes were pulling free from the white tiles. They looked like more than scraps of black rag, though less substantial than cloth, and they dropped onto the bed, scuttling like beetles.

  The shadow was moving slowly toward him. His fingers fumbled frantically for the alarm monitor to summon the nurse, but it had slipped away from him.

  From under the bed another shadow emerged. Talons gripped the edge of the bed, ripping into the sheets as the shadow pulled itself out into the light.

  Carter was helpless. His upper body immobile, his lower body encased in the bedsheets.

  The shadow was leaning over the bottom of the bed, palms outstretched as if directing the beetle shapes. The small black shapes crawled over the sheets, burrowing beneath them. The shape from under the bed pulled itself upright, the gray skin pulsing in the light.

  His only hope was his power, his gift.

  Carter summoned the strength he had, his mind clouded by the painkillers and medicines. He drew his concentration into a ball of focus. He tried to call for help.

  “What is that?” the man asked.

  The nurse behind the desk ran toward Carter’s room. Other nurses and a couple of doctors suddenly materialized and ran that way as well.

  The man and woman did the same.

  The nurse who opened the door to the room stayed in the doorway. The others crowded behind her.

  Their duty was to enter the room and help the patient. What they were seeing was stopping them.

  Leaning over the end of the bed, being absorbed into the bedclothes, a black man-shape was half buried into Carter’s legs.

  Mounds of small creatures had burrowed beneath the sheets and were tearing at the flesh of his chest.

  The gray shape from under the bed looked as if it was formed out of tentacles and scraps of torn material. The fingers were long and pointed. They gripped Carter’s head, shaking it from side to side, pulling loose the plastic neck brace.

  Pushing through the shocked crowd of medical personnel, the man and woman took a few seconds to appraise the situation. Then their hands locked together, and they closed their eyes.

  They probed with their minds and through pain and fear they found the essence of Carter. He had sent out a cry for help that had somehow set off dozens of alarms. As they swept the room with their power they found resistance. They pushed harder.

  The lights went out.

  In the darkness it was impossible to see the black shadows. Gripping their hands together even tighter, the man and woman concentrated on the gray shape at Carter’s head. It represented the most immediate danger, and instinctively they knew it was the leader. They shoved it, aiming in the general direction they guessed it would be. As its fingers loosened on Carter, he was able to add his power to theirs. Despite the pain from his injuries and the damage being inflicted on his body, he summoned a supreme effort of will and mentally pushed at the shape.

  With all three wills being directed in unison, it worked. The lights flickered back on. The gray shape dissolved, like a morning mist.

  With the room bathed again in light, the man and woman were emboldened. They moved to the end of the bed, directly behind the large shadow. Gradually, with joint effort, the shape became less dense. It wavered like heat haze on a road, almost liquefying as it washed harmlessly onto the bedclothes.

  A nurse ran to Carter’s side and checked his drips. A doctor began adjusting the monitor. Two other nurses stripped the sheets from the bed. They all expected to see small black shapes scurry out from the sheets, but there was nothing there.

  The man and woman looked at each other and dropped their hands.

  Carter was being propped up on the pillows by a nurse.

  The pain was etched onto his face, but he managed a weak smile.

  It was good to see John McKinley again, even better to see Jane Talbot.

  Chapter Eight

  Clerkenwell, London, England

  He jolted awake.

  Morning had broken while he was sleeping, and now the corridor was bathed in pale amber light that barely chased away the shivering shadows.

  Christ, he was cold!

  His whole body felt as if it were encased in a block of ice. He couldn’t feel his legs at all, and his hands were aching from the chill.

  This was where he was going to die; he’d resigned himself to that. All he hoped for now was that death came quickly. It was stupid to have thought he could elude them forever. In the back of his mind he always knew that they would catch up with him one day. Well, he thought, at least the chase is over now.

  A noise. A footfall. Perhaps they had come back to finish the job. He held his breath and listened intently.

  Maybe someone had come to rescue him. At that thought a small flame of hope flickered in his mind. The game may not be over, not just yet.

  Footsteps were padding along the corridor, but he couldn’t raise his head to see who was there. And then someone was crouching down by his side.

  “Well, Daniel, you seem to have gotten yourself in a bit of a mess, don’t you?”

  He stared at the familiar face smiling down at him. “Jason?” He managed to croak out the name.

  He was confused. He’d spoken to Jason Pike only a few hours earlier to tell him about the meeting with Simon Crozier of Department 18. Pike had been in Poland.

  “Czerwinski,” he said. If only his lips and throat weren’t so dry. Speaking was torture, like swallowing barbed wire.

  “Czerwinski, yes,” Pike said.

  “Water. Thirsty, so thirsty.”

  A large hand cupped his head, raising it slightly, and a bottle was put to his lips. As the water trickled over his lips he drank greedily, making himself cough, sending paroxysms of pain coursing through his body, pain so fierce he cried out.

  “Easy,” Pike said gently. “Tell me about Czerwinski.”

  “Our last hope of finding Julia,” Milton said, his thoughts woolly. “You said he could be the last hope of tracking her down.”

  “Ah, yes. Of course I did.”

  Daniel Milton tried to move his body, tried to sit up, but it was no use. His arms and legs were not taking orders from his brain. The effort was making sweat bead on his brow and bringing tears to his eyes. “You have to help me, Jason,” he said.

  “Of course, Daniel. An ambulance is on its way. You’ll soon be in safe hands.”

  Daniel managed a weak smile. “Thank you.”

  “Tell me more about Czerwinski.”

  Daniel licked his lips. The water bottle was there again, but this time he sipped slowly. “You should be in Poland,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

  “You called me. I came.”

  “I don’t understand.” Daniel could feel his tenuous line to consciousness starting to fray. Sleep was waiting in the shadows, cajoling him; its voice alluring, seductive. The strain of keeping his eyes open was almost too much.

  “Poland,” Pike said. “Tell me about Poland.”

  “You know. It was your idea.”

  And then something shifted in Daniel Milton’s mind.

  Tell me about Poland.

  This time the words were spoken in his head. But it wasn’t Jason Pike’s mellifluous voice intoning the words. It was an urgent, insistent voice, vaguely familiar.

  He searched his memory, trying
to match the voice. He opened his eyes and looked up at Pike.

  The face in front of him looked serene; kindly eyes looking deeply into his, lips curled into a reassuring smile.

  And then the image juddered, like film slipping on a spool. For a split second the face changed, but that was all Daniel needed. Summoning all that remained of his strength, he focused his mind, trying to force out the insistent voice.

  Jesus Christ! It’s strong.

  He was holding his breath, straining, his muscles bunched. Blood vessels popped in his eyes, and his ears and nose started to bleed. Finally the voice was gone and through the red mist clouding his vision he saw the illusion.

  Jason Pike had disappeared like the smoke ghost he was. Crouching next to Daniel instead, with a look of fury on his face, was a man he hadn’t seen for a long time.

  “Holly!” he hissed.

  The anger dropped from John Holly’s face to be replaced by a condescending smile. “I underestimated you, Milton. You’re stronger than you look. But never mind. You’ve given me enough.”

  Daniel Milton glared up at him, but the effort of forcing Holly’s illusion from his mind had weakened him still further.

  “I could snuff you out,” Holly said. “I could kill you in the blink of an eye if I wanted to.”

  “Just do it then, you bastard,” Daniel gasped.

  Holly stood and stared down at him disdainfully. “I wouldn’t waste my time with something so pathetic.” Then he spun on his heel and stalked back down the corridor to the stairs.

  Daniel listened to Holly’s footsteps receding. He took a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut. A single tear forced its way out from between his closed lids and slid down his cheek.

  Chapter Nine

  When the breath wanders the mind also is unsteady. But when the breath is calmed the mind too will be still, and the yogi achieves long life. Therefore, one should learn to control the breath.

  —Svatmarama, Hatha Yoga Pradipika

  Krakow, Poland

  “Thank you,” the man said and bustled inside. He was breathing hard, as if he’d been running a race, but it was probably just exhaustion from climbing the stairs. He didn’t look very fit.

  “Excuse the mess,” Jacek said with a sweep of his arm. “I haven’t got round to tidying up today.”

  The small man looked at him, confusion in his eyes. Jacek walked past him and swept up the bottle of vodka from the floor where he’d left it. “Vodka?”

  The man hesitated. “Yes…please…a small one.”

  Jacek went through to the kitchen, found two glasses that hadn’t been smashed and took them back to the lounge.

  “What’s your name?” Jacek said, handing the man a shot of vodka. “And what do you want with me?”

  “Can I sit? Those stairs…” the small man said, cupping the glass in both hands and staring down into the crystal liquid as if it were poison.

  “Sure,” Jacek said.

  “My name’s Adamczyk, Cyril Adamczyk. I was given your name by an acquaintance. He seemed to think you might be able to help me.”

  Jacek pulled up a hard chair and straddled it. “This acquaintance, does he have a name?”

  “Pike. He’s American, I think. Jason Pike.”

  Jacek shrugged. “Means nothing to me.”

  Adamczyk looked troubled. “So you won’t help?”

  Jacek frowned and knocked back his vodka. Wiping his lips on his sleeve, he said, “I didn’t say that. Just that I haven’t heard of this Pike character.”

  Adamczyk clutched at the straw that was apparently being offered. “So you’ll help?”

  Jacek shook his head. “I didn’t say that either. What’s the problem you need help with?”

  “My daughter…she’s missing. I have to find her.” Finally Adamczyk put the glass to his lips, tilted his head back, and sipped at the vodka. His whole body shuddered as the spirit did its work.

  Jacek watched him closely. The eyes behind the glasses were glazed with tears and his face was pallid, washed out, a film of sweat covering his brow. He appeared to be telling the truth, but Jacek had learned from bitter experience that things were not always as they appeared. He leaned forward in his seat. “Tell me about her,” he said.

  Adamczyk took another tentative sip of his drink. “Her name is Karolina. She’s nineteen and she went missing from university about three weeks ago. Disappeared into thin air.”

  “Boyfriends?”

  “That’s what the police asked, and I’ll tell you what I told them. There were a few, nothing serious. No one special.”

  “As far as you know.”

  “We know. Olga and I—Olga’s my wife—Olga and I have a wonderful relationship with our daughter, Mr. Czerwinski. She tells us everything.”

  A slight smile played on Jacek’s lips. “Mr. Adamczyk, no child tells her parents everything.”

  For the first time Cyril Adamczyk showed something other than forlorn desperation. He bridled. “Karolina isn’t like other children. She’s honest, open. In all her nineteen years we’ve never had a moment’s concern about her. She comes to us with her problems, no matter how intimate. We sit, we discuss, and then we decide on a course of action that will solve any difficulty she’s having. It’s always been that way. And now this. I just don’t understand it, and I’m afraid I’m starting to think the worst. I fear something dreadful has happened to her. You must help me.”

  “How far have the police taken this?”

  “They’re useless. They won’t take the disappearance seriously. They’re convinced Karolina has met someone and gone off with him.”

  “Anything to support that?”

  Adamczyk stared down into his glass and said nothing.

  Jacek drummed his fingers impatiently on the chair back. “Well?”

  Adamczyk looked up at him. “Could I have a cup of tea? I really can’t stomach vodka.”

  Jacek stood. “Sure. Lemon?”

  Adamczyk nodded. “Two sugars.”

  Jacek reached into his pocket and fished out a small digital recorder and set it down on the chair. “I want you to tell me everything. Leave nothing out. This will record your voice. I’ll put the kettle on.”

  In the kitchen he filled the kettle, then took a lemon from the fridge. With a very sharp, long-bladed knife he began to slice the lemon, concentrating on making each slice no more than four millimeters thick. While he sliced, the more analytical side of his mind thought about Adamczyk’s missing daughter, lining her up side by side with the twenty or more young people who had gone missing in the last few months.

  When he returned from the kitchen, he set the tea down and switched on the recorder. “Now, in your own time, I want you to search your memory for anything, however trivial you might think it is, that could possibly relate to Karolina’s disappearance. Including the name of the man she was seeing shortly before she vanished.”

  “But…”

  Jacek pushed him. “She was seeing someone, wasn’t she? That’s why the police aren’t interested.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “You need to tell me everything. I won’t think any less of your daughter, no matter what you tell me, but you must be honest. If you want me to help you, there can be no secrets between us.”

  Cyril Adamczyk sighed deeply as if dredging the truth up from a dark place hidden deep within himself. “His name is Kaminski. Wladyslaw Kaminski. That’s all she told us,” Cyril Adamczyk said and took a mouthful of the scalding hot tea, feeling the heat of it around his teeth before swallowing, as if to wash the name away. “She met him at a student party.”

  “No other details?”

  Adamczyk shook his head. “She told us very little about him, though I gathered he wasn’t a student. She did tell us he was older, early thirties.” He paused, sipping at his tea, as if he was steeling himself to speak again. “And…and that she loved him.”

  Jacek looked at him steadily. “Anything else?”

  “That’
s everything I can remember.”

  “How long had it been going on?”

  Adamczyk shook his head. “I don’t know. Weeks…a month maybe.”

  “And yet she claimed to be in love with him. Is he married?”

  “No! Karolina wouldn’t do such a thing.”

  Jacek shrugged. There was growing evidence that the Adamczyks didn’t know their daughter anywhere near as well as they thought they did. “Did you or your wife object to Karolina’s relationship with this Kaminski?”

  “We weren’t happy about it, if that’s what you mean. Her studies were starting to suffer. Her marks were falling, and her attitude toward her exams was lax, to say the least.”

  “And did you let her know you disapproved?”

  “I didn’t. I held my tongue, hoping this was just a phase she was going through. I trusted that she’d come to her senses eventually, hopefully before it was too late to salvage her education.”

  “But your wife?”

  “I’m afraid Olga is not a tolerant woman.”

  “So your wife confronted Karolina about it. With what result?”

  Adamczyk flushed, bringing two spots of color to his pasty cheeks. “There was a lot of shouting. A lot of tears.”

  “And how long was this before Karolina disappeared?”

  “Two days.”

  Jacek reached down and switched off the recorder and slipped it back into his pocket. “It seems pretty obvious what’s happened here. Karolina is smitten with this man, and your disapproval has forced her into an extreme reaction. It seems likely that she has simply run off with him.”

  Tears sprang to Cyril Adamczyk’s eyes. He slumped in the chair, defeated. “That’s what the police said.”

  “Then I’m afraid I must agree with them.”

  “So you won’t help me?”

  Jacek shook his head. This was so difficult, looking into Cyril Adamczyk’s watery eyes and knowing that he, Jacek Czerwinski, was the poor man’s last hope. “I didn’t say that,” he said gently. “I can try to track her down for you. But I can’t guarantee I can reunite your family.” He felt guilty saying it. He knew he was offering the man false hope, but he couldn’t bear to crush him, not right at this moment.