by Deek Rhew
“What are you planning?”
Sam smiled. “Just a little creative law enforcement.”
“You make my nipples hard when you talk all dirty like that.”
His smiled widened. He missed working with this man. “Do you think you can get that stuff for me?”
“Yeah, yeah. Give me a few hours, just be careful.”
“Thanks, Armon.” Sam disconnected the call.
He had the who, now he just needed to know the where. He clicked back over to the tracker app. The blinking pin showed the place that Monica had last logged on. He examined all the menu options and clicked on Show All Traces. The computer thought for a moment, then two more blips registered on the screen.
One pointed to Sam’s apartment in L.A. They’d said something in class about the program triangulating on anyone logged onto it. Something about it not knowing the difference between friend and foe. He right-clicked his bubble and chose Incognito. Hopefully that hid him from all prying eyes, including Josha’s.
He studied the screen. The second bubble seemed to be moving at a steady pace and had almost arrived at the diner. He must have logged on to the app through his phone, but never signed out.
I’ll bet that’s not the cavalry, Chet said.
Oh shit. Erebus? But how?
With all that’s going on, you really need to ask that question? Someone high up has given the opposing team our playbook.
But why?
Does it matter? The question is: What do you plan to do about it?
Time to go ghost. Sam shut down the PC, grabbed his bag, loaded it onto his bike, and headed out. He had a job to do.
36
He stood in the bank of old growth pine trees observing the little house, the darkness of the night and the shadows of the timbers more than adequate to conceal him. The modest structure sat on a flag lot, several hundred feet from the street and nestled against a woodland backyard. Neighboring structures could be seen in the distance through the trees, but they had been built far enough away for him to conduct his business without the inconvenience of witnesses. One by one, the other homes’ lights had been extinguished as the late hour put the world to sleep.
When the glow from the woman’s window went dim, he slinked forward, the soft soles of his Converse sneakers making no more than a light rustle in the blanket of cones and needles covering the yard. He’d followed her after her shift at the restaurant, verifying via observation and perusing her mail that she resided alone. The location couldn’t have been more ideal. Had she lived in an apartment with units above, below, and on either side, he would have had to adjust his plans. Here, in the middle of nothingness, he had free rein.
He picked the simple lock of the back door and let himself into Coral’s humble kitchen. Remaining still, he studied the small space as he absorbed the traces of lavender and floor cleaner that rode on the back of the heavy scent of musty wood. Tyron touched the single chair tucked under a simple dining table, his fingers trailing the smooth, cool surface of the back and sliding down to the bottom where she would have sat. His thumbs traced a rough crack in the cheap vinyl while his fingers splayed over the concave surface. He could feel her essence, her heat, buried within its molecules, absorbed by the cheap piece of furniture after hour upon hour of contact.
He continued his tour of the kitchen, fondling the surfaces of the table, the refrigerator, stovetop, and cupboards, but none of them contained as much of the waitress as that small plane of vinyl, cardboard, and cotton.
Having gotten all that he could from the kitchen, he went into the tiny living room. It felt void of her, a forgotten chamber. Coral never spent much time here. He suspected the batteries of the remote didn’t work because she never watched television. The lamps wouldn’t work, their bulbs having long ago burned out, and the couch would be devoid of her aura.
Drawn by an elusive magnetism, he moved to the far wall, a large portion of its surface covered by a bookshelf. Coral, the simple waitress from a diner along a lone highway, loved these tomes. He traced the outlines of the books where hands, her hands, had done so a thousand times before, leaving her impression behind.
Tyron could see her imprint as clearly as if she’d written her name in the fog of a mirror and feel her warmth like she’d handed him the jacket off of her back. He allowed her vitality and affection to permeate his skin. The energy flowed into his bloodstream, the two of them becoming more intimate than the most forlorn lovers of any romance novel dared to dream.
He pulled the zipper of his bodysuit, the disengaging teeth no more than a sigh in the still night, removed his shoes and suit, and stood naked in Coral’s unused living space. He closed his eyes and held out his arms, clearing his mind of all worldly thoughts and desires, beckoning the gods to join him in this night of celebration and transformation.
Something that he could neither see nor hear, but detected with a sense that defied definition, descended into the room. It circled his unmoving form, touching his face, his shoulders, his thighs, his buttocks, and then came to rest before him. Its hot breath brushed his cheek, and he relished the underlying metallic odor as a child might savor the sweet aroma of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies on a snowy afternoon. The entity caressed his face, and gooseflesh pricked every inch of his body.
The creature moved closer, and Tyron welcomed it to enter him, absorbing it as though slurping it through his pores. It settled in, taking up residence within him, solidifying his substance, its essence mingling with his cells and interweaving with his fibers. Together they formed a mass more substantial than the two individually.
Though it felt what he felt and saw what he saw, the other could not directly control him. It had joined him for the ride and the eventual rising. He would help it experience the joys of the flesh which, without a body, it could not do alone.
Their mingling complete, Tyron turned to the task with which he had been both blessed and burdened. A small silk sack clicked softly as a doe’s hoof step as he retrieved it from a zippered pocket on his suit. His fingers caressed the slippery softness of the humble tool bag. The contents were alive and ready.
As he moved down the short hall toward her sleeping quarters, the air chilled his skin while the thick carpet massaged his toes and nuzzled the soles of his feet.
He stopped just after crossing the precipice. Coral’s beauty, as with all women, lay within. One of the few the gods had seen fit to bless, he had the ability to unleash that beauty, revealing it for the world to gaze upon in wonder. She would show him that which remained elusive and hidden to others.
The softness of her breathing caressed his ear, and he inhaled the wonderful scent of her skin and hair. The lub-dub pulse of her heart beckoned, as poignant as the ping of a radar, and in the total blackness, he knew exactly where she lay.
Tyron loosened the ties of the small silk sack and retrieved a prophylactic. He slipped it on, his body eager and ready. He pulled out a steel blade, pressing its cool, flat surface against his leg. It needed to be as warm as his and Coral’s combined love, for it would serve as the key to the conduit in the dance of their intimacy.
Before they could begin though, he needed to conduct a little business. Only then could he explain the rules to her. Women respected a man that laid down a distinct set of guidelines and used both his superior strength and his wisdom to enforce them in whatever way he deemed fit.
He pressed the warmed blade against her neck, careful not to touch her any more than necessary. When they first connected, it had to be while he established the hierarchy. This would assist in her understanding of her place within it.
“Hello, bitch,” he whispered in her ear.
Coral’s body stiffened, and the black sheen of her eyes shone as they flew open. But she didn’t reply.
“I’ve got some questions for you. If you answer them willingly and truthfully, this will go a lot easier for both of us. If not…” He pressed the knife harder against the soft flesh of her n
eck. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good girl.” He reached over with his free hand and snapped on the small nightstand lamp. She blinked against the sudden brightness, and her gaze settled on his. He trailed the knife down her stomach, stopped at the top of her femoral artery, high on the inside of her exposed thigh, and pressed firmly. New terror grew in her eyes as she accepted his position of control. Tyron placed the small silk sack on the bed next to her. “Please remove the contents,” he instructed.
She hesitated only a second, then with trembling fingers she reached inside and pulled out a two-headed pick, not unlike what a dentist uses to remove plaque, and stared at it.
A pivotal point for him and his lover had been reached. Fear would either cause her to strike at him, or she would give in and accept his leadership. He understood her instinct to fight, saw the sharpening of her gaze. He pressed the knife harder against her leg, stared deep into her soul, and said simply, “Don’t.”
She paused, and he saw her consider trying even though it meant her immediate death. Then the hardness in her expression lessened, and she set the tool on the nightstand. She continued to remove the remaining tools, each more wicked-looking than the previous. Years before, he’d started with a complete taxidermist kit, but carrying such a bundle with him had been burdensome. After hundreds of experiments, he’d honed the set to a half-dozen essentials. She placed the last of the implements on the little table and pulled out four sets of cuffs. He’d modified these himself so the lengths of the chains could be adjusted.
“Now,” he said in his most soothing voice, “please fasten these around your wrists.”
“No. I can’t do that.” She swallowed. “You’ll…you’ll just kill me.”
“That is not an inevitability that has yet been decided.” He moved the knife back to her throat. “The ebb and flow of the evening’s events are based on your cooperation. You do as I say, and there is a very good chance you will see the sun rise in the morning and will once again have the opportunity to ask a customer if they want wheat or white toast with their eggs and bacon.” She needed the lie. Without it, fear would push her into to doing something that could cut their evening short and hinder her transformation.
She placed the last of the implements on the little table and pulled out two sets of cuffs. He’d modified these himself, making the chains long and adjustable.
He held out one end of a restraint. “Please fasten this around your wrist.”
Coral’s hands shook as she attached the cuff. She almost dropped it but managed to click it into place.
Tyron looped the long chain through the headboard, then secured her other wrist with the second cuff. A huge tear rolled down Coral’s cheek as he adjusted the length of steel, stretching her arms and snugging her wrists tight.
He fastened her ankles to the bedframe and resumed his position, placing the tip of the knife, once again, at the base of her throat.
“Thank you for your help. It will make things go much more smoothly. Now, I need a little information. You had two customers, a pair of women, come in during lunch. Where were they going?”
A look of confusion crossed her face. “I have a lot of customers; you need to be more specific.”
Even in her defenseless position, he knew she would resist him. He both expected and longed for it. That nugget of resolve would fade to utter submissiveness as he continued to establish his place as her mentor and owner. In return for her servitude, she would receive the joy and comfort of her new position, but more importantly, the salvation only he could offer her.
“Two women, mid-twenties, one with dark hair and blonde roots and a mole on her lip, the other with short hair. They had a laptop and were looking for directions.”
She didn’t answer right away, and he knew her next words would be a lie. “I don’t know who you mean.”
He shook his head. “I understand the reasoning behind the falseness of your words, but you need to understand the futility and ramifications of defying me.”
The cadence of her lifeblood beat strong and steady just a fraction of an inch below the edge of the razor. He longed for her blazing heat, red as an apple at the peak of season, to pour over his skin. Tyron moved the razor from her jugular and sliced away her t-shirt. The fabric parted as though it had no more substance than cobweb, and he ran the edge of the blade gently along her breasts. He traced the knife down to her ribcage, past her belly, and smoothly slit the cotton of her panties, which also fell away. As he stroked the blade over her exposed flesh, his fingers graced the delicate skin of her chest. Coral’s heart raced like a caged jackrabbit.
He ran the blade down the contours of her body. Hip to pubis. Pubis to thigh. Thigh to calf. Steel on steel, he circled her ankle just above where the restraint chaffed her skin. Moving lower, he noticed a blemish, a thick callus, most likely caused from long days of waitressing in cheap shoes, on the sole of her foot.
He tsked. “No. This won’t do. Not at all.”
“I…”
Tyron slid the blade through her skin.
A scream, piercing as a shard of glass, tore from her. She tried to pull away, but Tyron had left very little play in her bindings.
Careful not to mar the muscle, bone, and tendon under the surface, he worked slowly, making his way around the circumference of the bottom of her foot. Once completed, he set the knife on the nightstand next to his other tools and, starting at her heel, peeled away the epidermis, pulling it—and her blemish—free. He examined the raw flesh beneath, sighing. He still had a lot of work to do. It took so much effort to clean up God’s mistakes.
When Coral had removed the handcuffs, she’d stopped emptying the silk bag, but treasures and necessities still waited in its depths. Tyron retrieved a clear container of thumbtacks. He removed one and used it to attach Coral’s imperfection to the wall. Together they would create a mural unlike those by any other artist in history.
When Coral’s voice finally cracked and rang hoarse, he, and the other inside him, smiled. Tyron would not disappoint. He never did.
“Nashville.” She said through her sobbing. “They are going to Nashville through St. Louis. That’s all I know, I swear.”
“Good girl. Did you see the car they were driving?”
“No. No. It was during the lunch rush, and I was too busy to pay attention. I promise I don’t know anything else.”
“Thank you.” He smiled. “Now, shall we begin?”
* * *
In Greek mythology, the living passed through Erebus at the moment of death. After making his first kill, Tyron had changed his last name to that of the primordial deity, who in many texts personified a darkness so deep no light could escape it. But he knew this to be false. The god that had granted and honored him with his considerable talents used his hands like gloves to transform that which was flawed to that which was free of defects. Working together in harmonized perfection, they could unleash a soul’s splendor and true sanctity.
As the night turned to a phantom, the dawn replacing the specter’s gray substance with its orange light, he and Coral worked diligently to release her true inner beauty. As her final transformation commenced, she begged him to release her from this world. Together they had removed all of her flaws, attaching each blemish to the wall as a testament to her rise above all other women.
This undeserving vessel that had contained a lifetime of human imperfections had finally been made worthy of housing the gift of him. As he bestowed this present upon her, the other moved from his body to hers. As they made their climactic connection with her, Tyron released her tether to this world. She cried out in exaltation as the other possessed her, filling the vacancy left behind as the hot red of her essence flowed over Tyron’s skin, the mattress, the floor. He too gave of himself, helping the other propel her spirit on its journey from this world to the glories of the one beyond.
In that moment, Tyron longed to leave with the
m. They, the three of them, could travel the path as one, their souls mingling as they sought enlightenment and peace.
But his time for such a journey had not yet arrived. His work on Earth was not yet complete. So he would trudge on, the ever-faithful servant doing his duty to bring perfection to an imperfect world until finally beckoned into the afterlife to receive his hard-earned reward.
* * *
As Erebus stood under the hot spray of the shower—hollow and empty after the quick departure of the other—rinsing off the last of Coral’s transformation, his thoughts turned to the bitch and the mongrel she traveled with. The night’s events, though sacred and worthy of his time, had taken longer than he’d expected. He would have to move quickly to catch up to them.
He would, though. Of that he felt certain.
37
After their change in plans, Angel seemed to have let up on the accelerator, though just a little. She’d kept the little car cruising down the road at 90-plus as they made their way through the Kansas flats. Monica found a wallet of CDs under her seat. Lisa’d had eclectic taste in music, and as the miles slid past, Monica fed one disk after another into the car’s stereo. No matter what she tried, though, she kept returning to the same French rock band, listening to their CD time and again.
“What do you think they’re singing about?” Monica asked. She propped her bare feet up on the car’s dashboard, cotton between her toes, while she painted her nails with a cheap polish picked up at the last truck stop.
Angel looked over at her as the car sailed along the highway. “Well, they’re French. Probably pimps and whores.”
“Really? Pimps and whores? Is that big over there?”
“Of course. It’s totally different in European countries. Naked beaches, nude news, common showers. We’re so scared of seeing each other without clothes on here. I don’t even know what the big deal is. Tell me, who wouldn’t want to see us naked?”
