Sins of the Flash

by David Niall Wilson

  He had regained the control that had fled him so easily earlier. She was going nowhere, and she was his now. He didn't have to move to her rhythm, didn't want to play her games. She would play his, or he would play them with her, soon enough.

  "I had to go on, you see. That was where your Hiram came in. He does love you, you know. He's threatened me several times, made me promise to stay away from you. If you hadn't been so insistent, he might have kept you from me. What a shame that would have been. What a waste of art.

  "He found me the other two models. I showed him these pictures," he gestured at the shot of Lindy, "and I saw a gleam in his eye, an appreciation that went further than the visual spectrum. They grabbed him and stole a part of him. Hiram is no art critic, let me tell you, but he surely knows what he likes.

  “Do you know what that is, Maddy? With all your years together, with all your beauty, do you know what Hiram really likes now? He likes these photos. He likes captured, chiseled beauty. He likes pictures of dead women, Madeline. He's even envisioned you the same way. We've spoken of it. He cursed me, but he saw. I can always tell.

  “At first he denied it all. He didn't want to help me, but he did. I showed him what I was able to do with Lindy, although the work was flawed, and it was enough. After that he brought me Cherie. You remember her? Blonde? Cocaine addict?"

  The pleading faded to anger. Maddy shuddered violently as memories of the news reports she’d read returned to haunt her. Christian ignored her and let his hand rest lightly on her breast. He fondled her nipple idly. Her flesh was cool, coated with sweat and tiny bumps of fear. Christian twisted the nipple harder, making it spring to attention in his grasp, despite the hatred in her eyes, and he smiled.

  "Cherie was like you in one sense, she wanted sex before photos. That was my second mistake. I let her seduce me, and then I killed her. I should have remembered what came of that. My mother was the same, you see. I let her seduce me, time and again, over and over. All I got for that was abandoned. I should have known.

  “Cherie, though, she managed to soak into my vision and warp it to mesh with her own, even in death. The pictures, as you can see," he held up one of the photos of Cherie, and Madeline went white, shivering all over, "came out well." He turned the print to the left, then back to the right and ran his fingers over it and letting the light catch all the highlights.

  "They are flawed, though. They are not the visions as I saw them. They are too much like pictures of a living Cherie, too much like memories of what was and too little like the visions I craved. Once again, I failed."

  "So," he continued, "There was Veronica. I didn't want to shoot her next; I wanted you. Hiram wouldn't have it, and as it turns out, it was best that way. I still had things to learn, you see, still didn't have it quite right.

  "Her I killed right away. I took no chances. She got no opportunity to cloud my vision or melt through my thoughts and twist the flow of my creativity. I took control immediately, and once again, I failed.

  "It was no good. Without any of her in the mix, it was an empty vision of hollow loveliness. Again, the pictures were better than any that had come before, but not perfect.

  "Even Hiram hasn't seen these," he told her, flashing the pictures of Veronica one after the other, "only you and I have witnessed their beauty. Not perfect, as I say, but very, very close.

  "All that is left is perfection, and it was not for her. I was saving that for you."

  He dropped the pictures and ran both hands over her flesh. Her nipples hardened and he thought he felt the fear tingling just above her skin – like an aura. Christian turned, grabbed his makeup case, and pulled out the foundation.

  "I'm going to do this quickly, Maddy, so you can see. I could finish you first, but I want you to know the beauty I see inside. I want you to know the art that will make you immortal. You have that right. You are a partner in all this, my only collaborator."

  As he spoke, he took hair firmly in one hand and dabbing at her cheeks softly with the makeup pad. She averted her face, but did not pull away. Perhaps she thought she was buying time. Perhaps she thought that by letting him continue doing what he wanted with her, humoring him, she could hold out until the cavalry arrived.

  He smiled and worked carefully, quickly, and methodically. There would be no super heroes for her, not tonight, not ever. Only immortality.

  Christian had mapped out the vision so carefully that it was imbedded in his soul. It didn't take long to bring it to the surface. He saw it floating in the air wherever he turned and felt it developing on the photo-plate of his mind. Even as he contemplated her death, she came to life in his hands.

  Madeline’s tears threatened, at first, to smear the mascara, but he dried them patiently, again and again, touching up here, a flourish there. They didn't anger him, quite the contrary. They were another part of her, and he used them. He blended them with the mascara, using their salty touch to feather and highlight and to wash tiny flaws from the work as he went.

  She was the loveliest thing he'd ever held, the most precious thing he'd touched. As the Madeline of an hour earlier disappeared and the Madeline of his mind emerged, he grew hard again, tense with desire. This was why his control had returned. The human Madeline was a pale flicker of this beauty. He'd looked ahead, and his body had been poised for true beauty.

  It could not be much longer. He would have to finish soon. He needed to have her again, and she had to die first. She had to be gone when they came together for the last time, nothing but an empty shell, or it would be ruined. All his work, all he had lived and worked for, would be for nothing.

  Christian set aside the case, examined what he'd done, and lifted the mirror up for her to see.

  Madeline stared, morbidly fascinated. Even the yellow scarf that bound her lips fit into the design. The lines of her eyes were exquisite, the traceries of scarlet about her lips perfect and symmetrical. She moaned softly, and turned her head to the side, but her gaze never strayed from the mirror. She was perfect, and even through her fear and through the mortal terror that held her in its bonds, she was trapped in the vision.

  Christian laid her head gently on the pillow, still holding the mirror, and reached for the needle on the nightstand. He moved slowly, not taking his eyes off her, and he had it in his hand before she could catch him and start struggling. If she whipped her head back and forth too rapidly she might smear or ruin the makeup. It was too perfect, he didn't want to have to try and rebuild it.

  Christian grabbed her arm firmly, lifted the syringe, felt the tightening of her muscles, the spasm of fear that gripped her frame, and then he stopped. Cold.

  Outside a horn blared – directly outside. Immediately after that, just down the street, he heard the wailing of a siren, of many sirens, and the scraping of tires on gravel. He spun his heartbeat thundering, and looked to the window.

  Headlights turned into the lot and shadows moved beyond the curtains. Christian saw flashing lights, heard the scream of a siren. It was like the twisting, whirling end of a kaleidoscope, shadow and light and sound blending together to mesmerize him.

  "No..." he moaned, rising and staggering backward, freeing himself from the spell. He released Madeline's arm and stared numbly at the window. He stood like a statue for a long moment, heard footsteps, curses, and then he moved.

  Something deep inside him galvanized his legs and forced him through the door to the bathroom and up. He leaped without thought and hit the closed window with both his arms covering his eyes and a long, wailing scream on his lips. Glass shattered around him and sound filled his mind. Pain pounded in his elbows and his shoulders.

  He tumbled through the air, dropped hard on one knee and rolled. He didn't know what kept him moving, but he never hesitated, never thought, even for an instant, of lying there, or of crying out.

  He scrabbled scrambled? to his feet and never looked back. Christian lowered his head, clutched his sore and injured arms to his stomach, and ran. Behind him, the cursing was l
ouder, but there were no immediate following footsteps.

  He rounded the corner and saw a car in front of him, too late. He ran directly into the side of the taxi. Christian crashed against the window, hurting his already bruised arms. The world spun, then righted itself, and he screamed.

  The driver screamed back at him, but Christian was beyond caring. He looked down and saw that the syringe was still in his hand. He had forgotten to throw it aside when he leaped through the window. He walked to the driver's side door, where the man was getting out with an angry look on his face, and he lunged. Christian imbedded the needle like a dagger in the man's throat and pressed the plunger hard.

  The cabby staggered forward, reached for Christian weakly, and then fell face down in the street. Christian jumped into the cab and started it. He saw shadowy figures heading his way now, but he ignored them. He floored the gas, spun the vehicle in a U-turn, and headed into the streets, away from Broadway and downtown.

  His mind whirled back toward sanity, toward the reality of the moment, and he began to think, or to try and think, to sort out what had happened and what he had to do. He had no idea where he would go, what he would do; he just knew he had to get away.

  His fevered mind told him that the cab would have to go soon, that he would need to ditch it. He yearned for his car, his apartment, anything that could help him feel secure. There was nothing that could help. He roared through the night, ignoring stoplights and squealing around corners like a man possessed.

  Eventually he noticed that the streets were silent and dark, that he had lost the sound of the sirens. He knew they would be back, knew they would find him if he didn't do something quick, but the freedom of the moment allowed him to get a coherent thought through the haze that clouded his brain.

  He saw a street corner that looked familiar and he let out a sob. He pulled to the curb and leaped from the cab. He glanced up and down the street, orienting himself, and then disappeared down an alley, into the shadows. There was still one place he could go, one chance, and it wasn't that far. It wouldn't take long.

  His vision was returning, and he knew what he had to do. There was still a way to achieve his dreams, but he had to be strong and clever. He had to get away. As he ran, he heard his mother's mocking laughter floating after him on the night air, felt the weight of her laughing eyes between his thin shoulders.

  "You can't run away," she'd told him once, "you can't escape who you are, what you are. You are mine."

  * * *

  As Tommy and Mac stood frozen in the gravel drive, listening in numb frustration to the echoing sound of the sirens erupting through the silence behind them to scatter the ruined remnant of the silence of moments before, shadows moved inside the room.

  Two squad cars whipped into the lot behind them, lights blazing, and Tommy's cursing became truly sincere.

  "God damned rookies," he yelled, waving Mac forward. "They're gonna get us killed one of these days."

  There was no more surprise. There was no more advantage. There was only forward, full-tilt, and prayer. It was too bad, Tommy reflected as he crashed shoulder-first into the door and splintered it, that he didn't believe in God. Sometimes he wondered what kind of comfort that would bring him. Not often, but sometimes.

  The crashing of the door coincided with the smashing of the window in the next room, and it was a couple of moments before he'd taken in enough of the interior of the motel room to realize it. The two sounds had blended so perfectly that he missed the breaking glass completely.

  On the bed the woman from Gate's office lay bound in silk scarves, her face made up with eerie cunning. He stopped cold for a moment and took it all in. She was beautiful, beyond beautiful, ethereal. But was she alive? Was he too late again; had he failed?

  Then he saw that she was screaming. He couldn’t make out the words she hurled at him through the yellow scarf, but she caught the direction of her gaze. He shook his head to free himself of the image her prone form strobed through his mind, and cursed. He turned and leaped through the doorway to the next room. He took in the busted window at a glance and spun, shouldering the others out of his way as he raced out and around the building toward the street. Ahead, he saw the fleeing form of the killer, but there was a fence. It surrounded the back of the place, and Tommy realized with sick horror that there was no way over it. It was there for security, to keep people from breaking into the rooms from the street behind. Christ.

  The freak had leaped through the window and cleared the fence, and there was no other way around there. It figured. It God damned figured.

  With a scream that would have done a banshee proud, he leaped back through the doorway, crossed through the bedroom again, wild-eyed and crazed, and took the bathroom in two strides. He caught the windowsill with one foot and launching himself up and into the darkness beyond. He fell and rolled, letting his momentum carry him through, and was on his feet again, racing to make up the time that had been stolen from him.

  A car engine roared to life. He ran toward the sound. He had his gun raised and trained, but he couldn't fire. It might not be him, or, if it was he might not be alone. He could have the driver at gunpoint, and any shot fired might hit either of them.

  Tommy saw the cab spin and rush off into the distance, and he saw the body in the road at the same time. Too late. Too late to fire, too late to stop him. Damn.

  He rushed forward, leaned down and felt the man's throat. No pulse. Cursing in a steady stream, he pulled the man over, checked again for a pulse, willing it to be there. It was. It was very weak, but the man wasn’t dead.

  He began CPR, screaming for Mac, for backup, screaming to the shadows. Screaming in frustrated rage. He would not concede another life to this asshole, this fucking psycho. The freak had gotten away, for the moment, but this man would not. Not while there was a spark of hope that he could prevent it.

  Tommy pumped, five to one, pump pump, breath pump, pump, pump, pump, pump, breathe. His mind blanked, and in seconds Mac was there, relieving him, joining him. They became a single unit, became the man's life-support system, joined in the shadows and the frustration.

  They still had a pulse, but not much. In the distance he heard another siren. This time it was an ambulance, and he knew the medics were on the way. Now it was a race against death and time.

  One of the blue-shirts, a young guy with blonde hair and too many freckles for him to be a cop, leaned over and whistled, holding up the syringe. It wasn't empty. It had broken off, releasing only a small dose of its contents into the cabby's system.

  "Looks like we got here just in time, man," the kid said. "That freak was gonna kill her, sure as shit."

  "You might not have noticed," Tommy grated between breaths, "But he may have killed this guy right in front of our noses. I'd suggest you get that syringe to the medics out front so they can figure out what the flying fuck it is. Tell them where we are and get their asses back here now! Hurry the FUCK UP, before he goes."

  Without a word the boy did as he was told, and moments later the paramedics took over, pulling Tommy away and letting him fall to his knees, resting his head in his hands. Breathing heavily, he stumbled to his feet, looked around for Mac and found him off to one side, leaning on a post.

  "He's in a fucking cab, Mac. We've got to get that asshole."

  Mac only nodded, and they staggered off around the corner, leaving the ambulance and the two squad cars to handle the woman and the scene. Neither man glanced back. Neither wanted to know. If death found that man, so be it, but they needed their concentration for the chase. Mourning had its own place and time, and this wasn't it.

  "We have to get back to the station," Tommy said, slipping behind the wheel and gunning the engine. "That fuck Gates should be there by now, he might know where the freak headed. How many places could there be for someone like that?"

  Mac didn't answer right away. He stared at the doorway to the hotel room where the woman was being helped out to one of the squad cars. She was dress
ed, but her face was still made-up, still unearthly and strange. Still incredibly, undeniably erotic in the exotic play of color and design that covered it.

  Her eyes were huge and stared like those of a jungle cat. Tommy remembered her smile, remembered how comfortable it had made him feel. He hoped that it would be back one day.

  "What kind of a man can do that, Tommy?" Mac asked finally, as the cruiser pulled into traffic and roared off into town. "How can he do that, make her so, beautiful? How can he do that and be so . . ."

  "Sick?" Tommy whispered. "I don't know, Mac, I just don't fucking know. I know this, though.” Tommy looked at his partner as they pulled to the light at Broadway, "I'll never forget that woman's face. The damned psycho has branded my brain with it. He's got to go down."

  Mac didn't nod, but the determination in his eyes was fanatical. Tommy didn't know what had hit his partner this time. Maybe he'd seen his wife, or his daughter, hanging in a gallery in his mind, face painted like a geisha doll. It seemed like the makeup permeated his own thoughts now, insinuated itself over the features of every woman he saw, every potential victim he might not save.

  Maybe his partner was at his limit and just plain wanted to pop the guy like a zit. It didn't matter. When the time came, Greve was going to pay. It really didn't matter which of them got him first; it would also be last.

  They reached the station a few minutes ahead of the other cars, parked out front hurried inside. They found Gates in a holding cell and had him hauled to the interrogation room as quickly as possible.

  "All right, you asshole," Tommy began, not beating around the bush at all, "You tell us where this freak might run to. He isn't at home, he can't get back there. Where else would he go?"

  "Maddy," Gates stammered, his eyes wild and his hair matted over his eyes. He'd been crying, and his body was coated with a thick sheen of sweat. He was a pathetic, empty shell. Checked out. Nobody home. "Where is Maddy? Is she . . .?"

  "She's okay," Mac cut in. "We stopped him."