Only the Strong

by Ethan Cross

  He said, “You’re going home, ladies. You beat them. They’ll never hurt you again.”

  Hearing Emily’s voice from behind him, he wheeled around to see Mr. Dantonio carrying Agent Williams, who looked deathly pale. Emily yelled, “Baxter, get us to the closest hospital.”

  With a smile, he said, “It would be my pleasure.”

  Climbing into the cockpit, he began his pre-flight checks as the others piled in. Slipping on a headset, Emily said, “He’s bleeding out, Baxter. We have to hurry.”

  Pulling back on the stick and lifting off from the resort’s roof, Baxter said, “No worries. You know, you never even questioned how I knew how to fly a helicopter. It’s not like I learned this shit from reading a book.”

  Over the intercom, the man who had introduced himself as Francois Dantonio, said, “Actually, Mr. Kincaid, I did learn how to operate a helicopter, and several other pieces of equipment, by reading a book. It’s basically just the concepts of lift, drag, and thrust.”

  Frowning, Baxter said, “No offense, but I don’t want to work with y’all no more. You steal my thunder.”

  ~~*~~

  Chapter One Hundred Twenty

  Two weeks later . . .

  Corin stared at the hospital room ceiling and wondered if life was worth living, if the benefits of existence outweighed the costs. She didn’t question merely the purpose of her life, but that of all life in general. All the pain. All the suffering. Was there a point to any of it?

  She had survived, true. She had refused to die and had won the day. The police had rescued Sammy and the rest of Derrick’s harem from the compound, after Mr. Dantonio had contacted animal control agents about humanely tranquilizing the compound’s four-legged praetorian guard. Her little sister now occupied the hospital room’s other bed, having suffered no physical harm but enough psychological damage that it took her three days to speak. Sometimes, Sammy still seemed to be walking in a sort of sick fugue state, but Corin refused to let herself succumb to a similar melancholia.

  She had nearly lost the baby during her own struggle for survival, but through some twisted miracle, the Gladiator’s seed still clung to life. It was young enough that abortion was on the table, and she couldn’t see herself raising a child conceived in such a dark place. But terminating the pregnancy and choosing whether or not a baby deserved to exist seemed too close to something Dr. Derrick would have done. Adoption perhaps. Childbirth couldn’t be any worse than what she’d already been through.

  And she hated to admit it, but she was starting to enjoy a little pain.

  A voice like honey said, “I hear you’re getting a new foot, kiddo.”

  With a small smile, she pressed the button to raise her bed. Baxter Kincaid stood in the entrance to her hospital room, another arrangement of flowers in his arms. He wore a Pink Floyd T-shirt and camouflage shorts, topped off with his trilby hat and mane of curly golden hair. One of the many bright spots of the past two weeks had been the frequent visits from various members of the team who helped locate the Gladstone compound, especially Detective Ferrera and Baxter.

  “You didn’t have to bring me more flowers, Mr. Kincaid.”

  “I’m sorry, young lady, but due to some copyright exclusions they have legally removed the mister from out in front of my name. I’m just the Bax, man. Plus, I feel like I should come bearing gifts more often, not just for you but for everyone in general. Which brings me back to my question. Are you receiving a special gift soon?”

  Thinking of the prosthetic, Corin looked down at her blankets and the fall of the fabric where her foot should have been. It was strange; she could still feel it. There were moments when she was able to forget.

  She said, “You heard right. The Director of the Shepherd Organization stopped by yesterday and said that he had a connection at DARPA who had secured a cutting edge prosthetic for me.”

  “It’s good to have friends in high places. You’re going to be back on your feet in no time.”

  Corin felt the teardrops growing heavy behind her lids. “I don’t know that I’ll ever find the strength to stand again.”

  As he placed the flowers on a side table beside an array of other gift-shop purchases, Baxter said, “I don’t buy that for a second. Kid as tough as you will be doing triathlons a year from now.”

  Changing the subject before her thoughts could venture into dangerous territory, she said, “Detective Ferrera was here earlier. She told me that you used to be her partner in the homicide division. I asked why you quit to become a PI, but she didn’t have an answer.”

  “Was there a question for me in there somewhere?”

  “I’m asking. Why?”

  Baxter cocked an eyebrow and said, “I heard you broke off your engagement. Same question to you.”

  “The girl Blake wanted to marry died out there in the woods. And the girl who came back in her place doesn’t want to marry someone like Blake. Your turn.”

  Pulling over a chair, Baxter said, “I left the SFPD because I was racking up too many debts I could never pay back.”

  “Like gambling debts?”

  “No, more like debts of honor. Too many victims whose killers didn’t meet justice. Too many families who didn’t find closure. The brass were happy with passing a fifty percent clearance rate. Some cases we couldn’t solve. Some we solved but didn’t have the evidence to prosecute, which is basically the same as not knowing who did it at all. I saw a better alternative and struck out on my own.”

  “Did you ever kill anyone on the job, Mr. Kincaid?”

  “That’s a rather bold question.”

  “I’ve learned that life’s too short not to be who you really are and not say what’s really on your mind. I’ve kept my mouth shut long enough.”

  “Just curious, but why do you want to know?”

  “Is there any kind of client confidentiality with private investigators?”

  “Well, you’re not actually my client. And no, I’m licensed with the state of California and governed by the Private Investigators Act, which means I’m duty bound to report any criminal activity past or present to the proper authorities.”

  “So if I told you about something I had done in the past that was illegal, you’d have to tell the cops?”

  “That’s right. But if you told me about some hypothetical situation, just a mental exercise, then I’d simply assume you were seeking wisdom from an elder.”

  “Okay, I think.” She paused and considered how to phrase her question. “Hypothetically speaking, if an older sibling had taken lives in the past in order to protect her sister, would she be any better than Derrick and his demented brother? I mean, how do you put a value on life? How do you justify killing, no matter the circumstance? Is that older sister any better than the Gladstone brothers?”

  Baxter’s expression grew serious. “Define better. It’s not about who we are or what we’ve done, but rather who we choose to be. Transcending our own sinful natures is a road we can’t walk alone.”

  “I don’t have the energy for a God talk right now, Mr. Kincaid. So just let me guess, your particular religion or church is the right one with all the answers?”

  “I don’t believe in religions. I believe in relationships. And I personally feel that I’ve learned how to form a relationship with the Source of everything—to commune with the one uncreated being who resides beyond space and time.”

  “I don’t know if I believe in all that.”

  “Neil deGrasse Tyson—you believe in him, right?—once said, ‘The atoms of our bodies are traceable to stars that manufactured them in their cores and exploded these enriched ingredients across our galaxy, billions of years ago. We are atomically connected to all atoms in the universe. We are not figuratively, but literally, stardust.’”

  “What does that have to do with God?”

  “We all have stardust in
us. The light of the Universe. Tyson is an agnostic, and so that may not be the same kind of cool to him as it is to me. But the more I learn about science, the more I’m secured in my faith. I hear him saying that we are in the universe, but the Universe is also in us. We all hold the light of the source of creation. That’s a scientific fact. We just need to open ourselves up to it. Surrender to it. Let your let shine, baby girl. You just have to lower your defenses and pick up what the Universe is laying down.”

  “What about tsunamis, earthquakes, disease? How can a loving ‘Universe’ allow all that to happen?”

  “Let me answer that quandary with another. Where does your hope come from, Corin?”

  “I don’t understand the question.”

  “Would you like to?”

  She shook her head in confusion. “Like to what?”

  “Understand the question.”

  “I guess so.”

  “How much time do you have?”

  Corin slowly glanced around the room for effect, sat up in her bed, and replied, “I’m not going anywhere for a long time.”

  With a grin, Baxter pulled out his cell phone, activated a recording app, and placed the device between them. She arched her brows, and he said, “Do you mind if I record this conversation? You know, for posterity purposes. I have a feeling I may say some pretty cool shiznit.”

  ~~*~~

  Chapter One Hundred Twenty-One

  The dilapidated resort’s presidential suite smelled like a mixture of a pine forest and an ocean breeze. The first was a result of the biohazard cleaning crew that had disinfected the scene after the CSI work had been completed, and the second odor emanated from Derrick’s massive saltwater aquarium, which teemed with all manner of exotic fish. The faux nature smells made Marcus feel nauseous. The SFPD crime scene technicians had come and gone while he was in the hospital recovering. They had sprayed luminol-based chemicals and dusted for prints, searching for blood and other trace evidence. Then the cleaning crews had descended with their Tyvek suits and disinfectants.

  And now, Marcus could barely concentrate over the scent of cleaning fluid and saltwater piercing one of his senses while the bubbling and humming of the aquarium’s lights and pumps attacked another.

  Closing the door to Derrick’s master suite, Marcus Williams stared up at the wall filled with baby photos. He ached for those families whose dream of parenthood had been corrupted by the egomania of a madman. So far, none of the parents had been notified, pending the results of the investigation. Marcus wasn’t convinced that any of them should ever know the truth. It made him feel old and tired to think that only a few years ago he would have insisted that the truth see the light of day, no matter the costs. He had yet to decide if it was better that his views weren’t as rigid as they once were, or if it was worse.

  The SFPD had been instructed to stay clear of Derrick’s personal computer system and to leave that portion of the analysis to the Shepherd team. The Director had insisted out of fear that some of the Judas Killer’s files on the SO might have found their way into Gladstone’s possession. With Ackerman’s help, Stan had been connected to the device using a wireless hotspot and was currently searching for any evidence that could put them on the trail of Demon’s other acolytes.

  The locals had an entirely different agenda. The SFPD had hoped to find a connection to Oban Nassar or any of Mr. King’s other lieutenants. That would have given them probable cause for a warrant to search the mansions and King’s business holdings. Unfortunately, so far, all their efforts had turned up nothing. No official ties could be made between Derrick Gladstone and Mr. King’s illicit empire.

  Ackerman was now helping Stan by inserting a series of USB flash drives that had been located in Gladstone’s safe. They had already been at the job for a few hours, but as yet, Stan’s computer forensics had turned up nothing more than a collection of video footage and personal documents. It would have been good evidence for a trial—which was a bit unnecessary for dead men—but nothing that could aid them in dismantling Demon and his Legion.

  At his back, Ackerman said, “I believe Computer Man has discovered something pertinent.”

  Turning around too quickly, Marcus felt the stitches in his side tug against his flesh to the point of breaking. Ignoring the pain, he joined his brother behind Gladstone’s mahogany desk and leaned down to the laptop’s webcam. He would have sat down atop a folding chair that rested beside his brother, but that chair was already occupied by Ackerman’s new best friend, his Shih Tzu puppy, which Emily had insisted he bring with him whenever possible.

  Ackerman said, “I’d be happy to remove the vermin for you. Down, Theodore!”

  The little dog looked up from his dreaming and wagged his tail. Marcus smiled. “You gave him a name?”

  “Yes, I labeled him after two of my favorite historical figures. Ted Bundy and Theodore Roosevelt. One was a United States president, who had actually tasted battle, and the other a cunning serial murderer. I can’t remember which is which for some reason. No matter. The dog has a name, and Agent Morgan can now direct her attentions toward more fruitful pursuits.”

  Theodore had grown bored and gone back to sleep. Marcus didn’t want to wake him. He also didn’t want to face the fact that his brother was noticeably slipping in very subtle ways. Instead, he leaned into the laptop’s view and said, “It’s a good name. What do you have for me, Stan?”

  “I’ve found a hidden partition on some of these drives. The data from any one of them is garbage, but when I combined them together and used a deep analysis algorithm, I discovered a coded series of text documents.”

  “English, please?”

  “I think we may have found some additional Judas diary entries. He must have entrusted them with Gladstone for safe keeping.”

  Ackerman said, “Or Judas is stringing us along with a trail of breadcrumbs that leads to Demon’s doorstep, still working against his old mentor from the grave. For all we know, Dr. Gladstone may have been unaware of the existence of the files.”

  “Anything concrete in the entries?” Marcus asked.

  “You guys will have to read them to determine that, but I did various keyword searches and came up with one match to the word ‘Demon’ that you may find interesting. There’s an entry here referring to Demon and Judas visiting a potential new member of the Legion. But the strange thing is that Judas refers to Demon as the Demon Welkar, like it’s his last name or something.”

  Ackerman offered, “Or our scarred-faced friend is actually possessed by a supernatural entity named Welkar.”

  Marcus said, “We have enough devils to fight. Let’s leave the supernatural stuff to priests and angels.”

  “Spiritual warfare should be a primary concern of us all. We are but mere…”

  Feeling one of his brother’s ramblings coming on, Marcus tuned out Ackerman, and instead, he closed his eyes and dissected the phrase ‘Demon Welkar.’ Was it an anagram? A code of some kind?

  “. . . And then the young lady snapped the chains with her bare hands.”

  “That’s great, Frank. But when you were inside Foxbury Prison, Demon gave you a business card. Remind me again what it said.”

  “One side held a miniature version of a Henry Fusilli painting. The other contained a simple message . . .” Ackerman’s voice trailed off as he caught the connection.

  Marcus said, “It said ‘A2E,’ correct? If we take that name and switch every letter E for an A and vice versa. It gives us the name Damon Walker.”

  Ackerman nodded. “But if that is Demon’s given name, it’s a clue that either Judas or Demon could have planted for us to find. Two killers. One taunting us from the grave, and the other laughing in our faces at every turn.”

  “Who knows what madness they have in store for us next.”

  With a grin, Ackerman added, “I know I’m excited.”

 
“Oh yeah, great fun, if we survive.”

  “I would be of greater assistance in such a fight if you were to give me a gun.”

  With a roll of his eyes, Marcus said, “Sorry, the Director still says no guns. But I did convince him to allow you to have your bone-handled Bowie knife back. And these.” Fishing into a pocket, Marcus held out the small concealed sheath and push daggers that the Gladiator had used. “I figured these would be right up your alley. And . . . it’s your birthday next week, so consider this an early present.”

  “I’ve never received a birthday gift before. Thank you, brother.” Then Ackerman examined the small blades and grasped the push daggers so that the cutting edges protruded out between his middle and ring fingers. Testing the weight with an elaborate shadowboxing display, Ackerman said, “These are better than a gun anyway, in the right hands.”

  “Glad you like them. You’ve earned it. I’m proud of you, Frank. I mean that.”

  “And I of you, little brother.”

  From the laptop, Stan said, “We’ve turned up one more piece of information you may find interesting, boss. Not all of those pictures on the wall belong to Gladstone’s biological children. The biggest part of them are babies born as part of a clinical trial.”

  “A clinical trial for what?”

  “A new fertility drug that was apparently designed by Derrick Gladstone himself. It’s currently undergoing the FDA’s approval process.”

  Ackerman asked, “What does the drug do?”

  “From what I gather, it coats a man’s sperm in some kind of protein that makes them have to swim harder or something like that.”

  “I’m no expert, but that doesn’t sound like it would aid in fertilization.”

  “It’s not designed for men with problems. It’s supposed to be for a normal couple having a baby. The theory is that a lot of genetic abnormalities can be bypassed by essentially killing off the weaker sperm. It’s also designed to support insemination for the healthier and stronger swimmers. At least that’s what I gather from their website.”