Sins of the Flash

by David Niall Wilson

  There was something about the way the colors blended, the way the hair and makeup were so perfect, something surreal and otherworldly.

  He knew those who would pay for such work, knew them only too well. His own endeavors had thus far only bumped at the fringes of that darker world, had only stepped gingerly across the line on occasion, but nothing like this. Once he made his pitch, he was in. There was no way to back out of it.

  His heart hammered at the thought, the idea of handing even the smallest portion of control over to others. He would become knowledgeable of things that most people could not even conceive of existing in their city. That knowledge was a ball and chain, a trap. He would never escape it, and yet he was taking on the weight of it willingly.

  Hiram upended his glass for perhaps the dozenth time, feeling the smooth scotch burning a trail down his throat. It didn't matter; he was committed. It didn't matter why, or for whom, only that it was happening.

  He grabbed the pictures again and scanned the girl's features, the perfect curve of her throat, the rise of material where her young breasts pushed against the sheet that seemed to be draped haphazardly across her form, but obviously was not, and he felt his erection growing again, impossibly. He pushed the pictures aside, buzzing the front room.

  "Send in Cherie," he said softly.

  The girl was still waiting his final decision, had been working in the office, and sweating her future. He had a few more things to find out about her, a few things to test. There was no better time than the present. He tucked the photos away in a drawer, and leaned back, waiting. His smile was slow, but very, very wide.

  SEVEN

  After Christian called Gates and told him about the bodies in the dump and the picture in the paper, the shit hit the fan for about an hour. Christian hadn't expected the violence of the other man's reaction, though on reflection he supposed that he should have. In the end, despite his fears of everything crumbling about his ears, it didn’t matter.

  As far as their deal was concerned, nothing had changed. Nothing, that is, except that Christian was relieved of more responsibility. Gates would handle the bodies, once Christian was done with them. It would be done his way, and that was fine with Christian. He was an artist, not a killer. Gates knew what he was doing. Actually, to give the man credit, Christian didn't believe Gates had ever killed anyone. He just knew how to do it, how to get away with it. He knew the people and the places that made things happen, good things, and bad things. It was his job to know.

  After this had all been settled, and Gates had calmed Christian’s fears of discovery somewhat, they'd gotten down to the real issue; when the next photo session was and who would be the next model.

  The preparations Gates had made were more elaborate than Christian’s spur-of-the-moment encounter with Lindy and Tony had been, and they were more demanding on his time and his emotional energy. He was to meet his model in front of the “Shady Pines” hotel at 8:00 sharp. It was only six, and every nerve, every sensory input Christian possessed, was afire with anticipation, and with the heat of what was to come.

  He had several speeds of film in his bag, some different lenses, and a couple of carefully chosen filters that he had not used the last time. This model would be more mature, and every face was different. There were a thousand details to consider.

  The lighting would be more important, since there would be years chiseled into her features that would have to be taken into account with either shadows, or makeup. Christian’s mind whipped through the possibilities like an internal slide display, discarding some, filing others away.

  The girl's name was Cherie. She was new to Gates' firm, fresh out of some mid-western town in Ohio and very eager to please. This was good. The years would be there, but probably not the hard, cruel ones she might have lived in the city. They might have been kind to her, might even flatter her.

  Christian hadn't met the girl. They'd decided this would not be wise, but he'd been present at Sid's when Gates had brought her in, showing her around the place. It had all been set up for Christian's viewing, for his final decision. She was perfect.

  She didn't have Victorian beauty, nor did her face possess the classic lines that artists had sought over the centuries. What she did possess was a down-home innocence, a childish way of glancing about her, taking in the world as if it were a big surprise laid out just for her that had not yet been scourged from her by the life she was choosing.

  There was also a hunger in her eyes that reached out to Christian from across the room. It was hunger for life, for the big city and all its wonders. Beneath this the hunger had a sharper edge, and Christian knew this was Gates’ doing. It was the beginning of the chemical dependency that was sinking its claws into her slowly. The drug, like the city, had only had her in its clutches for a very short time, but it was there.

  Most of the other models Christian had known had lost this hunger and naive beauty years back, had cast it aside or hung it on one too many bedposts and been unable to fit back into it when they departed in the night.

  Christian's mother hadn’t possessed a shred of it. Her hungers had been desperate, and her obsessions had not really been intended to satisfy, only to blunt the pain.

  Now Christian waited, a half-full glass of scotch, which was slowly becoming a habit, sitting on the table in front of him. He sat alone, in silence, watching everything, missing nothing, blending with the mask faces on his wall. His thoughts were losing cohesion. Slowly the room faded, and the memory of the girl's beauty played a solo performance across the screen of his mind.

  He had new techniques to try beyond the photography, too. Hiram had provided a small vial of the white powder Cherie liked so well, the Cocaine. Gates insisted that it was better than the drops Christian had used in the scotch, and that the girl was more than willing to partake of it. Christian knew about drugs, had known them, done them, and watched them eat away at his mother's already questionable sanity for years. He knew little about Cocaine, though, beyond the fact that it was expensive.

  "Give her a few lines of this, Greve, and she'll do everything you ask. It's what brought her to me in the first place, her leash, if you will. Don't use it sparingly, either. She's kind of cute. The least you can do is, well . . . I want her to enjoy her last night."

  Hiram’s expression had been almost sentimental at that moment, but Christian had ignored it. He took the vial and stared at it in fascination. He remembered the drugs his mother had fed him, the euphoria, the warped way it had mixed up his vision, shaken his senses until nothing existed but her hands, her tongue, playing over his body, her mocking laughter as he reacted, just as she knew he would, just as he always had.

  Christian smiled. Now he would have the opportunity to see for himself what it was like on the other end of the leash. He wouldn’t be using it himself, as his mother had. There was no time for sharing pleasure; he had work to do.

  In the past few days he'd busied himself with his normal tasks, doing a little extra business here and there when it presented itself and putting together several "special" packages for Gates, different sized prints of his first shooting, enlarged, wallet-sized, even one huge portrait. It was the first taste of doing business for himself, not for others; it felt good.

  It also kept him busy, but now the critical moment approached, and Christian felt the pressure. What if it hadn't been the girl's fault? What if his mother had been right, that all he was good for was a laugh and a lousy nine-to-five job? What if his vision was skewed, or marred by some inner fault he couldn’t make out through the cracked lens of his mind?

  Could he have misplaced Lindy’s shoulder, missed the strand of hair in his excitement at the moment of creation? Was his concentration truly up to the task? He didn't know, nor did he really care. The urge to create again grew with each tick of the clock. His head pounded with a growing headache, and his mind was going numb under the weight of the anticipation.

  When he could wait no longer, he rose, gathered his b
ags and equipment, and piled them by the door. He saw the tumbler of scotch sitting before him on the table, forgotten, and he grabbed it, gulping its contents. He stared at the bottle for a long moment, then grabbed it and poured another, downing that as well. Somehow it seemed to help him concentrate. It wasn't the euphoria of Cocaine, but the slow ride to success. The scotch was becoming a part of his new identity, a part of his new life.

  Christian grabbed his jacket and headed out the door, camera bag in one hand and a small satchel with the rest of his gear in the other. He piled it all into the Dart and backed onto the street, barely remembering to look for oncoming traffic. It was a night for chances. There was no traffic.

  * * *

  She wore a light yellow top that clung tightly to the ample curves of her breasts and tucked into a short black skirt. Her legs seemed to drop forever from the hemline, curving, then curving again, falling away to delicate ankles and finishing in white, patent leather pumps. Christian's heart almost stopped when he saw her.

  She was dressed like a streetwalker from a wet dream, but still she had the innocence, that quality he'd seen the first time around. The clothes and the gaudy makeup all seemed false and somehow inappropriate. Though she moved easily in the heels, tapping the toes and swinging slowly and nervously in a circle as she awaited his arrival, a cigarette dangling cheaply from the corner of her mouth, it didn't yet mar her inner beauty.

  Christian saw through the facade; saw the lovely young girl beneath the glitzy trappings, the runaway daughter in the den of wolves. It was true that she blended in, that the pack seemed to accept her, but she did not belong completely. There was still an air of quiet streets and high-school proms that drew Christian to her and made him want to pat her on the head, or the behind, stroking the soft golden locks of her hair and pulling her close and safe.

  He knew the wolves would snap at it, ravage it, and rip it from her in little painful bits and pieces. He would be saving her the pain and immortalizing that which was best in her. It would be a tribute to days long gone and lives unlived. True art.

  He stepped from the car at one minute before eight and grabbed his bags. Closing and locking the door of the Dart, he was intensely aware that her gaze followed each movement, and he blushed. When he stood, he held the camera bag directly in front of him, covering his erection. No sense in letting her know the level of control she'd already exerted. He was taking no chances.

  Plastering the best attempt at a confident smile he could muster across his features, Christian stepped forward. He slipped both bags to his left hand and extended his right to take hers as he approached. It was a mistake. The point where their skin met sent an electric jolt through his arm, and he felt the blush return full force.

  "Mr. Greve?" she asked, flashing him a tentative smile.

  "Yes," he managed, "and you are . . . Cherie?"

  "Yes," she nodded, her hair bobbing prettily and her smile widening. "Mr. Gates said you'd meet me here, but I was beginning to worry. Do you know that five different men have tried to pick me up since I got here?"

  "I don't doubt it," Christian said, smiling again. He drew inward, remembering the other night, remembering the look of terror in the boy, Tony's eyes, the trembling of Lindy's lips. He focused on the sensations those moments had created within him, and he felt his power returning.

  "Well," he said at last, realizing he'd been staring at her for too long, "I must say that Mr. Gates has impeccable taste. I believe we can create something special together, something memorable. Shall we go inside?"

  Nodding shyly, Cherie followed Christian past the desk in the lobby. Gates had already provided him a room key, and the receptionist barely glanced up as they passed. It was not one of the cities city’s nicer hotels, but it was one of the more discreet.

  "Has Mr. Gates informed you as to the uh...peculiarities of this shoot?"

  "Oh," now it was her turn to blush, "he explained it all, Mr. Greve. I don't have any trouble with nudity, you know? I think if God gave me this body, who am I to keep it all to myself? He said you were doing something called Ladies of the Evening?"

  "Exactly," Christian agreed, fumbling the door to the room open as he talked, trying to remember exactly what he and Gates had discussed. "I want to capture the darker side of San Valencez' night life, but I want to capture the beauty in it, the – how can I put it – more seductive qualities.”

  "I'll be happy to do whatever you ask." Cherie's voice sounded less certain, less confident than before, and Christian turned. He set his cases down and grabbed both sides of her chin to hold her face still. There was a tentative promise in her words, a release of control. He almost felt the puppet strings snap into place.

  "You are perfect for this, Cherie," he told her. "There is something about you, something, innocent, that I want to capture. You are part of the life here, but it is not all that you are, not yet. I want to capture the last of the little girl that you were."

  She seemed mesmerized by his words. Her cheeks were flushed, and it was obvious that his attention made her feel important. Maybe the memories of her childhood were important to her, as well. Maybe it was his comment that she was becoming a part of the city that excited her. It didn't matter.

  Turning away from her again, he reached into the satchel and drew forth his bottle of scotch, two glasses, and the small vial. He wasn't going to have any of the drugs, but he would have his new bottled courage handy. He set it all casually on the dresser, grabbed the bottle and opened it. He filled two glasses carefully.

  "There is no rush," he said, smiling at her as comfortingly as possible. "Maybe you’d like to relax first, to loosen up? We want the natural you to come forth for the camera, no illusions.

  "That is the problem with most photography, most models. They pose like trained monkeys. Your legs should be just so, your hair has to flow over your shoulders in the same way as all other models – you can’t have an ounce of meat on your bones. It’s all drivel. True art exists in the images around us, the real images."

  She took the glass of scotch willingly enough, but her gaze was glued to the vial, and Christian saw a very different quality surfacing in the depths of her eyes. To him the drug had been another chain, a restraint, something to rob him of even his desire not to participate, making him a plaything. It was hard for him to understand her hunger for it.

  Cherie shook her head and dragged her gaze back to meet his, but at the same time her awareness of the vial had not diminished. It was fascinating, another stolen image, and perhaps one he could work with in the earlier part of the evening, the part where she was still a functioning partner.

  Moving to the dresser, he took up the vial and offered it to her. "If you would like?" he asked. Her eyes lit up with a fire he would not have believed they possessed, an almost obsequious surrender to his simple gesture.

  She took the vial in trembling hands. She placed her purse on the dresser slowly, but the quick, furtive movements of her hands and the scurrying of her fingers gave away her need. She pulled out a small mirror, a razor blade, and a dollar bill.

  She turned her head to smile up at him. Her expression seemed almost an apology – or a mask of shame. Maybe she was apologizing to her own mind, or to the mind that she'd left behind, the life she'd forsaken. The other half of the expression was unbridled appreciation. She was grateful; another emotion Christian was unfamiliar with.

  Then she turned back to the mirror and went to work on a small portion of the Cocaine. He was reminded of a squirrel trying its best to get through the skin of a reluctant nut.

  Cherie sifted a small amount of powder onto the mirror, smaller than he would have liked, and chopped at it with the razor blade, slipping it first to one side, then slipping it back, all the while grinding it into a finer powder. What Christian had at first assumed to be a very small amount spread out as she worked, expanding, until finally she had three long, slender lines of the powder.

  Turning to him, she offered the mirror, but he
shook his head. With a quick shrug, she took up the dollar bill, which she rolled carefully into a tube, and dipped her head, her hair bobbing almost daintily as she inhaled first on one side, then on the other. She leaned back, inhaled the powder deeper, and waited to be certain none would fall free. Then she dipped to the last line and split it between both nostrils with a deft toss of her head.

  Christian was fascinated. During the moment of inhaling the drug, Cherie was oblivious to her surroundings. Anything could happen; anything would be fine, as long as the powder made it to her nose, and to the blood that pulsed beyond. Christian wasn’t curious to feel what she felt. He did want very much to know how she felt. He didn’t want a drug – he wanted her.

  He wanted to feel her tremble as the Cocaine streamed through her body, to sense what she felt through the warm touch of her skin. He wanted to be a part of her hunger, to be part of the cure for her need. His own hunger was growing, demanding that he satisfy and feed it. It was an intoxicating rush, and he rode it, feeling it slide over and through him.

  Christian stepped closer. He put his hand gently on her hair and tilted her face up to the light. There was a dusting of white powder around her nose and her upper lip. Her lips were parted slightly, and she licked the roof of her mouth, and then slid her tongue out to run across her full lips and nearly to her chin. Fascinating.

  It was her eyes that held him, though. Deep, soulful eyes, eyes that spoke of dark green grass and campfires, of school dances and early bed times, of years now lost and abandoned. He felt her inside, wanting out, taking the easy road to adulthood, the road paved with stones and pitfalls, the dead end of drugs and the street. He yearned for his camera, yearned to capture the moment, lost it.

  She reached up and put her hand on his. She didn’t pull away, just stared at him. Christian stepped back, took both of her hands in his and helped her to her feet. He turned her then, like a model on a runway, studying her carefully. He didn't speak. An aura of tension wove between them, fueled by emotion and bound by his vision and her flesh.