by Gemma Files
“Winter’s better. They can’t smell you coming, at least not as well. But summer’s okay too, because by the time the cops find them there’s very little to even identify, and I’m gone long before they can.
“I keep my nose clean. I don’t get caught.
“But I’m lonely.
“And I don’t know how long I want to go on like this. But I don’t know how to stop, either. Or even if I can.
“So—
“—find me, Mike.
“And do whatever suits you, when you do.”
* * *
The parking lot behind King Fook’s. This is it, Adage thinks, through her haze.
At last.
She takes a last step, mainly for effect.
Sherri moans, runs straight into the back gate, scrabbles at it for a moment, then bounces back. It holds, locked tight for the night.
“God!” she screams.
Adage pauses to remove her coat, which is far, far too expensive to dry clean.
Sherri falls to her knees, sobbing, as much with anger as with fear.
And Adage starts to shake.
Sherri looks up, her cupped hands full of snot.
Adage throws her head back. The naked moon, visible at last, ripples in time to her shivering. A red joy cracks her ribs.
And Sherri just watches—
—as Adage rears up, full size, the corners of her mouth breaking open. Rips inch towards either ear. Impatient, she thrusts her hands inside, and pulls.
“Adage!”
To her right. From the elevators.
Sherri stumbles vertical, using the fence for support.
Adage turns, drooling blood.
In surprise: Mike?
He came.
The fence’s lock explodes.
Sherri shrieks. Adage matches her, high and harsh, like a carrion bird sighting a hearse.
She lunges.
“Adage—no!”
And as she turns again, Sherri slips under her arms, disappearing around the corner.
Mike and Adage are left, face to face, with only a gun and ten feet left between them.
Hesitant: “Adage?”
Slouched like a praying mantis, the thing wearing Susan’s skin gives a dust-dry laugh.
“See—for—your—self,” she says.
And steps into the light.
Mike’s hand—wavers.
Partially stripped, her bloodied skull nods moronically, face a crossfire of nerves. Her nose hangs flat, the torn half-mouth slack. She jerks her head aside, and both flap open, revealing the craters at their roots. A lipless grin chatters from chin to ear.
The nude moon of her left eye bulges and slits, blankly, as its lid smears itself shut.
“I—guess—this—means—you—heard—the—tape.”
Mike gulps.
Adage seems to smile. Then the change grips again.
Mike staggers back, gun at knee-level, as blood sprays.
Adage’s borrowed skin snaps at its seams, rucking up like a pair of old tights. She peels herself free. Beneath, the bulge of raw, red flesh. Muscles and mucous, thrust center-stage, spurt and writhe and glisten. Gristle follows, flashing taunting little hints of bone. A spine, vertebrae cracking like a whip as she moves closer. Hands, busy with tendons. Nails, still growing.
Slick, and pale, and sharp.
“Oh, Adage,” Mike whispers.
“What’s the matter, baby?”
Almost hear enough to touch, now.
“You’re like this too, underneath,” she says. “Know that? You all are.”
Half-blind with tears, Mike brings the gun up.
“Stay away, Adage.”
“Oh, but I can’t. Don’t you see I’m naked?”
Her hand, reaching. Claws ruffle his hair.
“Adage, please.”
“You who have so much,” says Adage Beck, no longer even faintly human. “Old pal, old buddy, old friend of mine. You who have so much, I pray—lend me a yard or two of hide to clothe my awful shame.”
And Mike—
—fires.
Seen
INT. APARTMENT. DAY.
RED, oddly textured, fills the screen.
DETECTIVE CARVALHO (O.S.)
So whatcha got for me here?
PULL BACK. The RED is revealed as a splotch of BLOOD on a rug.
RAY WRAY (O.S.)
Something sharp . . .
CARVALHO (O.S.)
(Unimpressed)
Yeah, no shit.
We KEEP PULLING BACK, revealing more and more splotches—a definite trail, like spray from an invisible wound . . . a whole bunch of invisible wounds. Then a tail-end of CRIME-SCENE TAPE and the chalk OUTLINE of where a body used to be.
RAY (undistinguished, middle 30’s) is down on his knees next to the OUTLINE, checking notes on his clipboard. He wears plastic gloves and a disposable coverall.
RAY
(Points)
. . . thin, no edge, no blade. Kind of rounded,
maybe an awl, or a big needle.
CARVALHO
What, like some kinda mad knitter?
A NEW ANGLE establishes the rest of the room: Mass slaughter, but no bodies—just tape, chalk and blood trails.
RAY
Well, I need to do more tests, obviously. But
the closest parallel I can get you right now
is something the size of a catheter or a
trocar, like what they use for draining off
fluid during an autopsy.
(Gets up, turns to point)
So here’s how it plays out . . .
CARVALHO turns too. He sees—
HIS P.O.V.: A QUICK CUT of an outline next to the fridge.
RAY (O.S.)
Mr. Riker’s in the kitchen, getting himself some
Minute Maid; Mrs. Riker’s checking the roast.
E.C.U. of an ORANGE JUICE CONTAINER overturned in a dried stain of juice, combined with streaks of red: Equally dry BLOOD.
RAY (O.S.)
Kids are watching TV.
SOUND F/X: The CLICK of a TV dial; TV sound.
E.C.U. of the TV’s flickering blue light, cast on the floor between screen and couch.
RAY (O.S.)
Our killer comes in through the front door,
pretty much right behind them, and . . .
ANGLED E.C.U., almost parallel with the jamb, of the front DOOR swinging gently open. FLASH EFFECT.
MONTAGE, linked by FLASH EFFECTS: CRIME SCENE PHOTOS of each body as it was discovered.
—The freshly BLOOD-SOAKED COUCH, with RIKER CHILD ONE and RIKER CHILD TWO’s bodies vaguely glimpsed, sprawled in either direction at the bottom of the frame.
—MRS. RIKER’s SHOE, kicked against the wall, half-submerged in a flood of BLOOD.
—MR. RIKER on the kitchen floor, full on. ORANGE JUICE everywhere, hands raised and bloody, pierced eye-sockets staring in horror at his attacker.
CUT BACK to RAY and CARVALHO.
RAY
We’ve got defensive wounds, but nothing
offensive—no fighting back, no evasion.
It’s like they never saw it coming.
CARVALHO
Drugs?
RAY
Not unless the kids were on the same stuff.
CARVALHO’s gaze shifts to—
HIS P.O.V.:—A casual group PHOTO of the Riker family stuck up on the fridge door. They look nice, normal, happy.
TRACK OVER. On the wall, written in blood: SEE ME.
BLACK SCREEN. OVER:
RAY (V.O.)
Whoever it was washed off in the bathroom,
afterwards. We found blood trace
s in the
shower, but no human detritus—
INT. RESTAURANT. DAY.
RAY and his sister, LEEANNE WRAY, are sitting over their dinner.
RAY
—no hairs, no fibers. Like they were just
sponging the blood off a coat made from rubber
or vinyl, one of those plastic, uh—
LEEANNE
—slickers.
(Wry)
Nice dinner conversation, Ray.
RAY
Yeah, I guess. Sorry.
(After a moment)
You, uh . . . hear from—them?
INSERT SHOT: A family PHOTO, posed vaguely like the one in the RIKER home—except that the parents (MR. and MRS. WRAY, LEEANNE and RAY’s father and mother) are barely looking at each other, and neither are looking at the little boy and girl (CHILD RAY and CHILD LEEANNE) posed uncomfortably at their feet.
BACK TO ANGLE ON LEEANNE, who shrugs.
LEEANNE
Not lately. You?
INSERT SHOT: The same PHOTO, CLOSER UP. Only CHILD RAY and CHILD LEEANNE are visible.
BACK TO ANGLE ON RAY, who shakes his head.
LEEANNE
Well.
INSERT SHOT: The same PHOTO, E.C.U. Only CHILD RAY and CHILD LEEANNE’s eyes are visible.
LEEANNE (V.O.)
Not like they ever noticed we were there,
anyway.
BACK TO ANGLE ON RAY, who looks uncomfortable.
RAY
That’s kinda harsh.
(She raises a brow)
I mean, it’s over, right? We got over it.
LEEANNE
(A dry laugh)
YOU did, baby bro. Me?
(Points at the waiter)
We’ve been here, what? Two hours? Raise
your hand, he’s there. Skips right over ME,
though. Must be able to tell I’m not the one
with the Gold Card.
RAY
Lee. C’mon . . .
He glances out the window, and sees—
RAY’s P.O.V.—a WOMAN wearing a see-through RAINCOAT, coming towards him, walking against the grain of the crowd.
E.C.U. ON HIS EYES, locking—
E.C.U.—on hers.
NEW ANGLE. The WOMAN reacts, as though startled that he’s looking at her at all. She pauses, turns, stares.
NEW ANGLE. RAY reacts, startled by HER reaction. He meets and matches her gaze, like: Yes?
LEEANNE (O.S.)
Ray. Ray. Heh-LO?
PULL OUT as she snaps her fingers in his face; he looks at her. She leans back, annoyed but vindicated.
LEEANNE
Now, THAT’s what I’m talking about.
RAY glances back. Behind him—
RAY’s P.O.V.—the WOMAN is gone.
INT. RAY’s APARTMENT. NIGHT.
SOUND F/X: A MICROWAVE BUZZER goes off.
RAY sits at the kitchen table, eating a microwave dinner. WE HEAR the TV in the background.
TV ANNOUNCER (V.O.)
. . . still have no explanation for the complete
lack of witnesses, but maintain that forensic
evidence recovered from the scenes holds a
clue to the mysterious . . .
LATER. RAY lies on the floor, working out, doing flys with a barbell in either hand. The TV is still on.
TV INTERVIEWEE (V.O.)
. . . “estrangement”: A certain—alienation—
from society and the world around them. A
sense of being somehow, somehow . . .
LATER. RAY is in the bathroom, door open. WE HEAR the sound of running water. The TV is still on.
TV PREACHER (V.O.)
. . . ’unseen creatures fill the air, both when
we wake and when we sleep.’ This, my friends,
is much like how the Lord’s invisible but
constant presence . . .
LATER. RAY, hair wet and wrapped in a towel, sits in front of the TV paying bills. He isn’t looking at the screen, but BLUE FLICKERING LIGHT illuminates his face.
TV SPORTS GUY (V.O.)
. . . hoo! Buddy, that’s GOTTA hurt. In
football, meanwhile . . .
A surge of blooper-clip MUSIC. RAY shuts his eyes.
CLICK. BLACK SCREEN.
E.C.U. RAY’s eyes SNAP open.
NEW ANGLE. The WOMAN from the street is standing over him, still wearing her see-through RAINCOAT.
WOMAN
You can SEE me.
RAY
What?
WOMAN
See.
INSERT SHOT, with FLASH effect: The bloody word, on the Riker kitchen wall.
WOMAN
Me.
ON RAY, with FLASH EFFECT: His eyes WIDEN. He’s suddenly realized just WHERE he’s heard/seen this before.
WOMAN
Out of which EYE can you see me?
RAY
(Dry mouth)
. . . both.
WOMAN
THAT’s a pity.
A blurred MOVEMENT, just on the edge of the frame, as she— E.C.U.—brings up a big needle, like a TROCAR.
BLACK SCREEN.
SOUND F/X: We HEAR a puncturing thunk, followed by a SCREAM.
FIRST CREDIT ROLLS.
SOUND F/X: The same noise, again.
ROLL CREDITS.
Torch Song
You are labeled the dark or black Goddess,
the Goddess of graves, killer of man, the unholy.
At Delphi, you are known as Aphrodite on the Tomb.
—Christine Downing
Don’t threaten me with love, baby.
— Billie Holiday
SWEAT, FEVER—I WOKE coughing glass. Down to Lee Earle’s for twelve on the dot, just him, me and the other regulars: Two any-age habitual D-and-D offenders—one male, one not—and a clutch of pyramid-scheme drones from the strip-mall office space, still loud and wired after an all-night selling jag.
Listening to Georgia Gibbs’ “Kiss of Fire” on endless repeat, slowly teasing my lingering bourbon-fume haze back into a righteous full-on drunk; studying the scar tissue on my knuckles, wondering just how long I would have to keep this up before I either died from liver damage or got myself killed in a brawl. I hoped not that much longer, but suspected I hoped in vain.
The count: four years this Valentine’s, and still going.
The record, thus far unbroken: never any more than two or so days spent sober, in between trips to the dry-out ward or the tank.
“Hit me,” I told Lee Earle, tapping my glass. Got a sideways glare back: Hung-over voodoo eyes. Like he wanted to take me literal, but didn’t have the guts. I slammed the bourbon, tapped it again.
“Your old partner’s back in town,” he said, leaning to fill ‘er up. “Lookinland. You hear about that?”
“No,” I said. “I didn’t.”
“Well, he is.”
Another swallow—it went down burning, hot and hard, straight to where I always used to think my heart was located. Before I knew better.
Lee Earle: “Did a Quantico internship, now he’s mister big-shit honorary profiler, with a hard-on for cults and crazies. Pitched them some new division—same old freak-show cases you guys used to break back when. Like that rape/snuff job they found Monday on Jenner, in the vacant lot.”
“Didn’t hear about that, either.”
He reached under the bar, threw me a copy of the Highlight. “Try reading the paper every once in a while, Proulx. In between drinks.”
Fresh ink, smeared fingerprints. The headline, all screaming caps: BRUTAL MURDER! “TORTURED,” SAYS CORONER! LOCAL BOY TO HEAD! Beh
ind me, Georgia’s sour-sweet pipes wailed on over piano-wire strings—Argentinian whore-house tango turned over-orchestrated Hollyweird torch song, the words a bad-translation joke. If I’m a slave, then it’s a slave I want to be!
Beck’s familiar face stared up at me where he knelt by the body, lifting a tarpaulin corner with his pen—a black-on-grey collage, all dots and shadows. New suit, new grey paling his short brown hair, new glasses: Plastic frames—easier to break, harder to embed. A thin white shadow of raised keloiding along the length of his occipital bone.
Don’t pity me!
More bourbon, acid on a sandpaper tongue.
Don’t pity me!
His dark, level eyes under dark, level brows, gaze narrow and discreet as ever. A hidden bruise.
Hadn’t seen him in the flesh since the day he walked into the locker room, put his crushed and purple nose next to mine, and told me if I ever got this close to him again, he’d shoot me cold and call it self-defense. And all I could think of then, like all I could think of now: How bad I wanted to feel the sharp, new-moon ridge of his scar on my tongue; to taste and trace the damage I’d made, in the heat of the moment.
Smelling his hair, his skin. Feeling my heart swell, rib-locked, so quick and huge it made me want to cry.
Me.
I put the paper down. To Lee Earle: “This dump got a phone?”
“Not for free, it don’t.”
Twenty on the counter—receiver in my hand, low-grade magic. I punched the station switchboard, gambling on booze-soaked memory. Itchy flame stinging at my eyes and groin, lighting my way.
Beck’s nameplate, hovering phantom in the dark behind my forehead: A blind neon pain.
* * *
“I wish you love, Detective,” she whispered to me, as she went by—Mrs. Silas. First name Maria, N.M.I. I looked it up in her file. Her head was bowed, hair hanging in her eyes; just a breath of a phrase on my cheek, consonants etched in bile and honey. Beck didn’t even hear her.
I did. And laughed, because it didn’t seem like much of a curse. At the time.
* * *
Afterwards, I went home, called it in from my own line. I.A. found me ten hours later, so long gone they could have used my blood to spike the V-Day party punch.
They brought me a letter of resignation to sign; I signed it. No charges pressed, no publicity, no pension—some deal. Better than I deserved.
They told me Beck told them I did it. I allowed as how I had.
