by J. D. Oliva
Brian put his fingers on Mark's face. What he'd done didn't feel good. It was more of a reflex than anything. Like blinking.
This is something he had to do now. Blinking wasn't accurate though. That's more involuntary. You can't control blinking unless you think about it. What happened may better be described as a habit. Like brushing your teeth or drinking coffee. You could choose not to do it, but you feel gross or tired without them.
He certainly felt more tired now. Like he hadn't slept in days. Or since he was in that laboratory Petrie dish so many years ago; which is strange because Brian Anderson, at 6'4", couldn't fit into a Petrie dish. And yet, he saw it deep in his memory.
Brian looked back down on Mark's lifeless eyes. The carpet was a mess, and so are his clothes. He stood and walked into their bedroom with its attached master bath. He stripped off the bloody clothes and let them drop the carpeted floor. He twisted the shower knob and hopped into the tub. Lukewarm water ran across his long limbs.
There's a time he would have worried about someone finding the body, but he abandoned those concerns long ago. Eventually, they'd find him, he'd confess and go to prison for the rest of his life. No big deal. Then he'd move on to a new home. He had the chance to move a new host a few nights earlier. It's too hard to stay in one place for too long. The bodies just aren't as strong as they once were.
Brian grabbed a bottle of Head and Shoulders and soaped up his short red hair. He almost had a different host, until that boy found him.
"Shane," Brian said as the water rolled across his face.
The boy's name is Christopher Shane. He knew that now. Christopher Shane saw the ovum as he tried to spawn. Creating the ovum and spawning was time-consuming and exhausting. Having to just leave one unfertilized is dangerous. They'd existed for almost seventy years without being discovered. Except for a few instances here and there, all of which got taken care of. But none of them ever let someone who's seen the spawning get away.
Brian turned off the showerhead and grabbed a nearby towel. It smelled nice, like fabric softener. He dried off and took a look into the mirror, seeing a familiar face and form for the first time. He is tall and strong. Brian flexed his pectorals a few times and nodded. This is an upgrade.
"Intriguing."
Opening their closet door, Brian found a dress shirt and matching tie. The sooner he got back to the station, the easier it would be to turn the attention back to Christopher Shane. The more attention, the quicker Shane would be found. The boy needed to be silenced.
Threading his new build through his pant legs, Brian took one last look at Mark. In forty-eight hours people would start asking questions. Being a police officer might give him an extra twelve to twenty-four hours. He had three days to find the boy before the process needed to start again.
This is all so exhausting.
XXXV
What choice did Jericho have? He'd gotten pretty far in life, and in the business, by intimidating people. Jamie Casten, much like her older sister, didn't seem to care. But there was something about her straight up defiance that he liked. This kid had potential. Not sure at what, but he was going to make sure not to get in her way.
"Fine. But this isn't a game. You want to stay alive, you follow what I say. That's where your sister messed up. You dig?"
Jamie nodded. An almost satisfied scowl crawled over her face. Jericho knew the look well. He'd seen that face on many clients, usually after they'd signed the deal. It was a look that said, I'm finally going to get what I want. He liked to call it righteous indignation.
"What now?" She asked.
"I need to read these notes. Get the old smell back."
Chris looked over at him. Something about the phrase tripped him up.
"You can use my Aunt and Uncle's place."
"I don't think so," Jericho said.
"It's perfect. They're outta town and have a full fridge," Jamie said, walking away from the storage locker. She already made her mind up. "Just follow me."
Jericho and Chris shrugged. Jericho had the five composition notebooks under his arm, while Chris pulled the metal garage door down and slapped the padlock around the security hook. Jericho was about to ask the kid for the key back, but saw him slip the key into his pocket. He understood. A man on the run needs to keep every hiding option on the table.
"You think she believes us?" Chris asked.
"Nope. But she wants to keep an eye on what we're doing. We just need to stay low-key."
"Think she'll narc us out if things get messy?"
They followed her back to the parking lot. Jamie clicked the unlock button on a Red 2010 Ford Mustang GT. Her behind the wheel of that piece of modern American muscle was surprising. She turned the ignition and revved the engine. Jericho heard the unmistakable thunderous echo of a supercharged V8.
"One hundred percent," Jericho said.
"Just follow me."
The Mustang pealed out of the storage facility.
"Yeah, real low-key," Chris muttered under his breath.
XXXVI
The Green Beast had trouble following the Red Mustang through the streets of St. Louis. Chris was convinced she tired to get pulled over by the police, which kind of made sense since he knew she wasn't on board with this whole Catch The Nightcrawler thing. Hell, Chris was in the middle of it, and even he had trouble believing.
They finally pulled up to a two-and-a-half-story house in St. Louis' Central West End. It reminded him of the houses the rich kids from Park Ridge lived in back in high school. He never felt comfortable there. He is a blue-collar, cop's kid, and looking at this immense brick home, that probably cost more than his dad made in ten years, made him feel small.
Watching Jamie step out of her Mustang with a caramel frappe in her hand, Chris figured that was the point. She's rich and could get rid of them anytime she wanted. He should've just stayed on that barstool.
"Park on the street," she said.
"Yes, ma'am," the man in black said back, shaking his head.
They parked the Green Beast and headed for the entrance of a house they had no business in.
Chris reached up to run his hands through his hair, a nervous tick he picked up in childhood. He forgot his shaggy brown hair was gone. Jericho made him shave it off yesterday morning, and he still wasn't used to it. He did look like a different person without it. which But it's still weird.
They stepped into the entryway, and Chris felt instantly swallowed up by the built-in bookshelves, classic hardwood floors, and collection of grandfather clocks. Rich people stuff. Part of him wanted to just burn this entire place to the ground, but it certainly wouldn't help anything.
Jamie put her keys and sunglasses down on the granite countertop in the kitchen. "So, make yourself at home. Do you guys want a beer?"
"It's 10:00 am," Chris responded.
"It's been a rough morning."
"Pass," the assassin said.
"Your loss." Jamie cracked open a can of Natural Lite.
Rich kid drinking cheap, shit beer. Chris hadn't seen that since he was back at Owens State. Jamie took a big sip and looked at the large man in the black cargo pants and matching t-shirt.
"We're inside. Take off your sunglasses."
He shook her off. "They stay on."
She raised an eyebrow, testing the two of them to see what she could get away with. Chris respected her guts, but wasn't in the mood for games.
"Fine. But if we're gonna work together, I'm gonna need to know who you are."
The assassin shook her off again. "We don't do names."
"You know mine. It's only fair to know yours. Relationships are built on trust, and right now, I have none for either of you."
"I'm Chris," he said, extending his hand to shake.
She looked down at his hand and raised her eyes back up with an unimpressed look. She wanted names, not friends.
"And you?"
"You can call me Mr. Feinberg."
"I thought it was Giancarl
o?"
"You don't need to know my name."
"Yeah, what is your name?" Chris added.
"You don't even know!" She pointed.
Chris shook his head, and the two of them turned back to the frustrated assassin. "Fine. It's Ethan."
"Really?" Chris asked with a cracked voice. "You don't look like an Ethan."
"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"
Chris threw his hands into the air, realizing he just crossed a line. But can you blame him? How many 6'4", jacked-ass killers with dreadlocks were out there named Ethan?
"Nothing!"
"Your name isn't Ethan. C'mon," she laughed.
"Whatever. Is there a place I can read?"
Jamie took another sip from the can and nodded toward the dining room. "The dining room table works fine."
"Fine," Ethan said, leaving the two of them alone. "Damn, teenagers," he muttered.
The uncomfortable silence was back. Less than twelve hours earlier, their dynamic felt very different. Chris' dishonesty caused everything, but if he couldn't fix it, this whole process was going to be brutal.
"How long you been traveling with Angry Ethan over there?" She asked, breaking the tension.
"Couple of days."
"You actually believe his bullshit?" She took another drink.
"Absolutely. I trust him. Maybe more than anyone in the world."
Jamie took a seat at, what Chris' mom would have called a breakfast nook, but Dad would have called a small table. She needed to hear why Chris Shane trusted this weird-looking dude who's clearly a cold-blooded killer.
"And why is that, Mr. Chris?"
"He saved my life and almost died doing it."
That part is true. Ethan let him keep the bullet. It may not have gone exactly as planned, but that's how it worked out in the end. Without the bullet, Chris would've died, and the little scar in his palm would look a lot different.
Jamie didn't know what to make of it, but she could see the sincerity on his face.
"Do you believe in mind-controlling worms?"
"I dunno, but one time, I saw something a lot worse."
She raised an eyebrow, not sure whether or not to believe him. Or if it's possible to believe him.
"And what was that?"
XXXVII
Jericho scanned through Alyse Casten's old notebooks. They were pretty close to what he remembered. A beat-by-beat account of the Nightcrawler's greatest hits.
Alyse was the first to suspect anything unusual about her father's murder. It started as a child in denial, who couldn't believe her mother was capable of killing. Experience told him that people are capable of anything if pushed. It kept him in business all these years. But she was right, all these murders were virtually identical. When the crimes were solved, and the suspects almost always confess, who's going to look for patterns? A perfect way to cover up a crime, really.
Alyse would have made a pretty good long-term partner. If Jericho is guilty of anything other than his own laundry list of murders, it's being a little too headstrong and ready to jump into action. Having someone a little more cerebral might have made things a bit easier. Like, imagine if Rich Weaver could handle this part of the business.
Just asking that is humorous.
That's why he had to work alone. If he made a mistake, it's his mistake, and the cost is his alone. Manipulating people into doing what you need is one thing. Straight up working with them like they're equals was different. It was a mistake.
Jamie's laugh snapped him out of his thought. Guess the kid is a little more charismatic than he thought. After what she's been through, how often did she laugh? Probably not a lot.
Jericho flipped a page and saw the mugshot of a woman called Hannah McNear from 1979. She looked a little like Kathryn Bischoff, the woman who should have tried to kill him that night instead of Alyse.
Mistakes.
But for as smart as Alyse was, she never thought to look for a demon worm. Just thinking that sounded stupid, and yet here they were. If the Nightcrawler is real, how is he going to bait it into the open again? The boy would be the easiest to use, but considering he is subject to an FBI manhunt, he needs to keep a low profile. The girl was off-limits, not this time.
BBZZZZTT
BBZZZZTT
Jericho grabbed his phone, surprised to be receiving any calls. It's probably some BS with Cherry Vale.
The screen read The Snoop.
"I'll be damned," he said before sliding open the screen. "Doc's Drug Store."
"Hello, there, Doc. I got a visit from some Federales yesterday," said a voice that belonged to the intrepid reporter, Dana O'Brien.
"Still getting yourself in trouble?" Jericho asked, figuring she needed help. Again.
"Not me. It's about a mutual friend of ours."
Jericho looked across the dining room and saw Chris and Jamie Casten talking.
"And?"
"Well, it sounded like whatever he got himself involved with is pretty serious. I set up a Google notification with his name attached. I'm about to send you a link."
BBZZZZTT
Jericho clicked the attachment. It was a video from a press conference with the St. Charles Police. Jericho clicked the link and found a tall, red-haired cop addressing the press.
"Skip to one minute, thirteen seconds," she said.
Jericho did as told, which is always best when dealing with her.
"Last night Kimberly Aranda was murdered while under police protection. The suspect is a man named Christopher Jackson Shane." A photograph of Chris from the night of his fight filled the screen. "Mr. Shane is also the prime suspect in the murder of Dennis Reed. We are currently working with St. Louis PD and the FBI, as we believe the suspect is armed and dangerous."
Shit is the first thought to roll through his head, but Jericho said, "And why is this my problem?'
"Because I know he's with you," she said from back in Chicago.
"Why do you think that?"
"Cause it's what I'd do."
Damn, she's smart.
"Look, I know whatever this is...this isn't Chris. Whatever you guys are doing, I can keep my ear to the ground."
Jericho wouldn't say okay or admit anything over an open channel. But he appreciated the help.
"If he reaches out to me, I'll keep that in mind."
Neither of them is sentimental enough to say anything like goodbye. They didn't need to. Each of them knew there was going to be another chance to say it in person. It's not like either of them is going to find themselves in less trouble in the future. Jericho disconnected the call.
"Hey, kid! We got a problem."
XXXVIII
Special Agents Nashida and Oroye pulled into the parking lot of the St. Charles Police Department. Nashida tried to project the image of a cool customer, but he was ready to blow. Most people would have been fuming at what Detective Anderson did. Nashida was furious, which meant he'd scowl a little more than usual. The two FBI agents walked through the entrance and found Detective Anderson's long frame waiting for them
"Detective Anderson, can we speak in private for a moment?"
"Not really."
Not the answer Nashida wanted to hear. The scowl got a little tighter.
"What the hell were you thinking?"
"Agent Nashida, while the two of you were traipsing around the midwest, I was here trying to keep an eye on the victim."
"And a great job you did, Detective."
Anderson leaned into the Special Agent, towering over him. If Nashida felt impressed or intimidated, he didn't show it. Instead, the agent kept his scowl.
"Kimberly Aranda was attacked inside her supposedly safe hotel room by the perpetrator."
"Your men set the safe house up, Detective," Nashida reminded him.
"Did you just come in to point fingers, Nashida?"
"No. I want to know how Shane got into the building, past the security, into the room, and then past you."
"We're dea
ling with a violent criminal, Agent Nashida. You never know what they're going to do," Anderson said, turning his back and walking away from the feds.
That's a lie. That's exactly what profilers did. They built personality profiles that literally tried to predict what the prep's next move could be. Nothing about it fit the profile they created for Christopher Shane even suggested a retribution attack was possible. Why would Shane drive all the way to Central Illinois only to come back to murder the witness? He escaped; backtracking made no sense.
"I don't buy it," Oroye whispered.
"Something is off."
"Yeah, these local yokels are trying to shut us out."
"Not only that, Anderson was super cooperative, now all of a sudden we're at war. The story has a million holes in it, not to mention the song and dance he put on at a press conference that never should have happened."
"This doesn't make sense."
All this little confrontation meant is the FBI, and the SCPD are now at odds.
XXXIX
"I am fucked."
Chris wasn't wrong. The St. Charles PD took their manhunt mainstream. This was going to make things much more difficult, even with the new haircut.
"What are we going to do?"
"Wait a second. You killed someone?" Jamie said, taking a step back away from the dining room table where Jericho had her sister's notebooks scattered.
"No!"
She didn't believe him. Why would she? Aren't the police supposed to be the trusted source, especially when the other side includes a guy you think was involved in your sister's murder? They really were fucked.
Jericho tried to calm things. "Just relax. Both of you. Chris didn't kill anyone."
Jericho played the press conference again, taking a closer look at this Detective Anderson.
"I was personally at the undisclosed location and witnessed the suspect engaging in the murder of Miss Aranda. This was my mistake."
"That's him," Jericho said.
