Chapter Four
Something Odious
The open window showcased a dark San Francisco night sprinkled in colorful city lights. Samantha’s vantage point revealed the elegant office in which she sat to be many stories high in the city’s tallest high-rise. She admired the view until a voice reminded her of the reason for being there.
“You say this person is an expert killer.”
The speaker was Karl Manoukian, a middle-aged man who spoke with an uncommon accent from behind his large oaken desk. Traces of gray laced the balding black hair strung over his head, and his sallow complexion suggested a mixed and unclear origin. Diamond chips lined the silver-rimmed spectacles that windowed his dark and piercing eyes.
“He is,” Samantha maintained. She and Josh sat in two comfortable chairs but didn’t relish filling them if it meant being the captive audience of the city’s preeminent businessman.
“You only make that assumption because you think he’s some kind of a master martial artist,” Manoukian claimed.
“Look, he killed Stiles, there’s no doubting it,” Josh contended.
Samantha winced for her brother’s insubordinate tone, but it didn’t surprise her. Josh had made a habit of protecting her since childhood, and his defensive posture seemed always automatic.
“You say that, but she didn’t see him do it,” Manoukian countered.
“I have more than just circumstantial evidence,” Samantha divulged.
“Oh, and what might that be?”
“This,” she said while pulling a ragged object from her purse.
At first, neither Manoukian nor Josh seemed to know what it was, but as she unfolded it, the object identified itself. It was a very long belt, the kind worn by martial artists. Remnants of black were still evident, but most of it had shredded to a faded gray. Several Japanese characters embroidered in red fancied both ends. Manoukian responded, “And that is...”
“It’s a tenth degree black belt,” Samantha declared, “and it belongs to someone so advanced that the black of this belt has faded by now. This man has been a black belt for more than twenty years.”
“Where did you get it?”
“From his condo in Oakland. I tracked fourteen addresses of men named Trent Smith in the Bay Area, and when I determined which one was him, I paid him a visit. No one was home, so I took the liberty to let myself in.”
“You are quite the detective,” Manoukian admitted. “So tell me. Was there anything else?”
“No,” Samantha answered with a sigh. “Nothing that provided any information about who he is or who he works for. I found no evidence of family. There were no albums or photos, no papers, no files, nothing. It looked like he just moved in. There was no computer and no telephone. His mail only had junk, and his bed didn’t even have covers on it.” After finishing her statement, Samantha wished she left that last part out.
“So all we have is a name,” Manoukian said. “You saw Stiles enter a restroom. You saw this Trent Smith enter the same restroom. You saw Smith come out, and you found this thing in his home.” He nodded at the belt. “The official report says Stiles died of natural causes. That means he could have died before Smith entered or after Smith exited the restroom.”
“The official report states he died from natural causes, but my own investigation uncovered the real cause of Stiles’ death,” Samantha explained. “It was a lack of oxygen to the brain due to crushed internal carotid arteries. A martial arts master can kill like that. The report also failed to mention that Stiles’ left shoulder was dislocated when he died. That’s more evidence of—”
“Perhaps,” Manoukian interrupted. “But why? Did Soriah send him?”
“He doesn’t fit the profile of a Soriah Special,” Josh advised. “He must work for someone else.”
Manoukian paused, but only for a moment. “Interesting,” he said. “Is there any record of this man in the police files?”
“Mr. Manoukian, the police have nothing on him,” Samantha replied. “We don’t even know where he’s from, or where he was born.”
“Samantha, please...”
“Yes, I’m sorry. Karl.”
“Thank you.”
Samantha was eager to make her point. “Mr. Manou... Karl... You wanted Stiles. Trent Smith killed Stiles. I think that makes him right for the job.”
“I can’t risk everything on what you think,” Karl retorted. “I need to be sure. I was sure about Benjamin Stiles, but I’m not sure about this Trent Smith.” He glared alternately at Samantha and Josh. “Besides, you say he’s an average-sized man. He’ll never get close enough. Soriah only surrounds himself with athletes. Big ones.”
“If Soriah knew this guy killed Stiles with his bare hands, he might make an exception,” Josh surmised. “He’s been known to do that.”
“No,” Karl snapped. “Stiles was the man for the job. He was already part of Soriah’s network. Now that he’s gone, you will have to do it. You were one of them. They want you back, anyway.”
“I’m not a killer,” Josh argued. “It’s not something I can do, even if I wanted to.”
“And thanks to me the world still believes that. It’s why you work for me, is it not?”
“Josh quit working for Soriah,” Samantha interjected, “because he found out what he’s really like, and he doesn’t want any part of it.”
“But he was a part of it!” Karl shouted. He calmed himself and continued. “When Mr. Soriah became my partner, I thought his resources would be a boon. I believed his money and influence would make our product available worldwide. Instead, we have a monster on our hands, and he has taken us in a direction I had never dreamed possible. It’s why Josh and I defied him. He must be stopped. We have to be sure.”
Josh cleared his throat. “I am indebted to you,” he said. “And I believe, as you do, in the betterment of humanity. But how do we know it’s the real reason you want Soriah dead?”
“Josh!” Samantha cried.
“Well, how do we know?”
“I can’t believe you. Karl saved your life. You should be grateful.”
Despite Samantha’s response, Karl’s face darkened and he shook his head. “You disappoint me,” he said to Josh. “With one phone call I can put you in jail. Is that what you want?” He lifted his desk phone.
Josh lowered his gaze and answered, “No.”
“Then you will do as I say. I took care of your problem as a personal favor to your sister. She owes me nothing, but you owe me in return. If you are a real man, you will repay me.”
Samantha narrowed her eyes. “He’s not going back there,” she stressed. “And you can’t make him.” She didn’t want to sound impertinent, but the bond with her brother was blood thick, and she knew that Karl Manoukian never enjoyed seeing her upset.
“My dear,” Karl droned, “we had a deal. I am a man of my word, as you know. I kept my promise to you, and your brother is safe. However, the world is in great danger, and we must do something about it, don’t you agree?”
Samantha peeked at her brother and whispered, “Yes.”
Karl switched his gaze from Samantha to Josh. “And you,” he said with a sterner tone. “You understand what Soriah represents. I thought you were on my side. Why are you trying to make me the villain in front of your sister?”
“Mr. Manoukian,” Josh began, “I know I was supposed to bring you Stiles. I know he was going to do this for you...for us.” He glanced at Samantha, and his face became resolved. “But someone took him out. It was this Smith guy. If it turns out he works for Soriah, then that means Soriah’s on to you. Don’t you think that puts you in danger?”
The next sounds were twin beeps from the top of Karl’s desk accompanied by a flashing yellow light. Samantha knew it signified a high priority call, and Karl answered it immediately. “Yes,” he said into the cordless handset. “That’s quite unlikely. You’re sure?” A pause. “Very well.”
Karl slowly lowered the phone, and his gaze, fill
ed with astonishment, drifted back to Samantha, and then to Josh. “Well, it seems you could be right about this Smith,” he conceded. “Jeremiah Flint has just been...killed...at the Flip Flop Club.” He seemed to struggle with the news, even as he spoke.
“Jeremiah Flint...killed?” Josh repeated in disbelief.
“Yes.”
“But what about Topu Tacau?”
“Him, too.”
“Impossible!” Josh exclaimed. “Topu’s a Soriah Special.”
“I know,” was all Karl seemed able to say.
“No, it can’t be true.”
“Yes, Josh, it appears your Mr. Smith killed both Flint and Topu Tacau. From what I understand, the Global Girls saw the whole thing.”
Karl retained an astonished face until Samantha, unabashedly pleased, announced, “That means he doesn’t work for Abraham Soriah.”
“But I have to be sure,” Karl insisted with his expression turning grim. “Completely sure.” For several moments he examined his desktop. Then he looked up and said, “Find him, Samantha. This will be your assignment. Don’t worry about your superiors. The San Francisco Police Department will believe they were the ones who sent you. I must know if Trent Smith works for Soriah. And if he doesn’t, then he must work for me.”
“I’ll find him,” Samantha said. “You can count on it.”
She placed the lengthy belt in her purse, setting it next to a small photo of a comely Asian girl. It was inscribed with Japanese characters, but two words were written in English: Love, Yoshiko.
* * * *
Captain Gutto’s office appeared awfully small to Samantha while she waited in front of his desk. After a session in Karl Manoukian’s office the night before, the comparative space seemed little more than a closet. And the captain’s corpulent body was somewhat heavier lately. A double chin suggested he spent the bulk of his job behind the desk he shared with a stained coffee cup and an empty donut box.
As Captain Gutto burrowed through the paper reports, Samantha already knew what he was going to say. Finally, he put the stack aside, looked up, and asked, “Ever been to New York?”
* * * *
The next thing Trent knew, he was walking inside a dimly lit maze of well-trimmed shrubbery. An unearthly silence imbued the air, which seemed heavy and oddly unreal. His peripheral vision was out of focus, and eerie sensations crept through his bones. Not knowing where he was or how he got there, he felt compelled to keep moving forward. Step after step, Trent couldn’t gauge his progress, and he had no sense of time.
Eventually, he managed to catch a glimpse of a small figure when a passage stretched before him. It was an old man wearing a white hospital gown. Even though the man was slight and frail, he seemed to move along at the same pace as Trent. Just as Trent turned a corner, the old man was visible for but a moment before he also turned a corner. This lasted longer than Trent could say, but soon he felt an ominous presence lurking in the trails he left behind. He slowly turned around. Nothing was there. Yet the feeling was unmistakable. Something followed him, and it was something odious.
For long moments, Trent stood motionless, keeping his eye on the far corner. Nothing emerged. It was as if the entity recognized Trent’s wait for revelation, but it wouldn’t cooperate. It waited, too. Still, Trent held firm. He was about to take a step toward the presence when he heard a squeaky voice from the opposite direction. “What are you waiting for?”
Trent pivoted to the voice and saw the old man looking at him, smiling. He was diminutive and short, with wiry white hair that was long and unkempt like in the Albert Einstein photos he’d seen from time to time. The man hurried on, making Trent decide to follow him again. Trent quickened his pace until he was running, but every corner he turned, again revealed the oldster rounding the corner ahead. Trent slowed to a stop. He was confused as to why he couldn’t gain any ground on the strange senior citizen.
Soft footsteps made Trent spin around. He saw Josh and Samantha Jones, and was relieved the evil wasn’t coming from them. Josh, tall and broad-shouldered, wore his former football uniform, but without the helmet and underlying pads. Upon his white jersey, the number eighty-eight emblazoned his chest, and he carried a football under his arm.
Samantha was as gorgeous as ever, but it was strange to see her in a cheerleader uniform. Stranger still, it wasn’t the typical outfit of a professional cheerleader, it was more the style of a prep school cheer squad. The skirt was short and pleated, white in color, and trimmed in black. A large letter M embroidered on the front of her white top was also trimmed in black. Trent thought for a moment that she was a cop, not a cheerleader. Something was wrong with this picture. Regardless, he was glad to see them, and he was first to speak. “Did you guys see anything back there?”
“Like what?” Samantha asked.
“Like something bad.” Trent felt stymied for being unable to elaborate.
“No,” Josh said.
“What about the old guy? Do either of you know who that old guy is?”
“What old guy?” Josh asked.
Samantha stepped forward. “How about if Josh goes back to find out what this bad thing is, and I’ll run ahead and try to find the old guy.” Subsequently, each sibling ran off in the respective direction of her suggestion.
Once again, Trent found himself alone. It was disconcerting. He didn’t know whether to go back and assist Josh, or go ahead and find Samantha. He decided to catch up with Samantha.
Trent rounded corner after corner until finally he saw Samantha sitting on the ground near the end of a pathway with no more corners to turn. Standing at the dead end was the old man. He was facing the bush, and Trent only saw the back of his gown and the hair on the back of his head. Determined to reach him, Trent passed Samantha, and as he did, she called out, “Don’t hurt him.”
Don’t hurt him? Trent didn’t know why she would say that. He believed the old man was the key to solving the maze, and right now that was the only thing he wanted to do. He put his hand on the man’s shoulder, but he turned of his own volition, and Trent withdrew his arm. Once the man faced him, Trent was surprised to see a much younger man. His hair was full and neat, light brown and well kept, and the skin on his face was smooth and youthful. His physique, also, was of a young man, but Trent knew this was the same person who moments before looked ancient.
The youth said, “What’s the matter? Don’t you want to live forever?”
Feeling revulsion, Trent backed away, but as he did, he brushed against the vegetation and felt a sharp sting on his shoulder. He slapped his hand over the pain. In the next moment, a rush swelled from his center and surged through his extremities. He looked into the wall of leaves and zoomed in to a needle-like thorn beaded with blood. He lifted his hand to examine his shoulder and was amazed to see it healing in front of his eyes. Like a video on rewind, the blood returned to the puncture, which shrank until no wound remained. Even his torn sleeve miraculously mended. He backpedaled further, passing Samantha, and it was then he realized her concern wasn’t meant for the old man.
Again, Trent felt the ominous presence and pivoted. He saw Josh, no longer in possession of his football, and although he discerned no evil from him, he was visibly distraught. With a glance at Trent, he said, “Sorry, man. I’m...so sorry.” He sat on the ground next to his sister, and the faces of both siblings blanked, as if they were hypnotized.
Puzzled, Trent moved away from them and in the direction of the emanate evil, but when he reached the leafy corner, he froze. He didn’t know if he should advance, or if he should retreat. He decided to advance. After a single step, a monstrous humanoid shape, rotted and moldy, suddenly pounced with the ferocity of an African lion. It attacked violently, clawing wildly with talons ripping flesh from bone. Trent could only throw his arms up to protect himself, but it was useless. The creature’s size was overpowering, and its stench overwhelming. Trent felt himself succumbing to the slashing savagery.
In moments, it would be over, but Tr
ent was a fighter, and he refused to submit. He reached deep into his heart, into his soul, and retaliated with every fiber of his being, pummeling the monster with his fists, again, and again, and again. By sheer force of will, Trent gained the upper hand and didn’t stop bashing and smashing until all that was left of the ghastly ghoul was little more than a gooey gob on the grassy ground.
Comprehending the obscenity finished, Trent staggered to his feet and turned his head. Josh and Samantha were gone, and no sign of the youngster remained. Next, the fuzzy edges of his vision bled inward. Everything faded and there was only black.
Trent was adrift in space. A void of no boundary or light, yet he felt no despair. He knew where he was. The master had described this place. It was the bane of existence, a point where shadow prevails. The subconscious side of life, but also the intellectual side—the inspired side.
As Trent floated through infinity, he heard Shoji’s voice: “To have light with no shadow, one believes he has mastered all, and I tell you now this is the way of the fool. He who understands his limits shows wisdom. Without the shadow there can be no motivation and no innovation. One must value darkness in addition to the light...or be cursed to eternal stagnation.”
From the sea of timeless nothing, something new began to form. The exquisite face of his past romance, Yoshiko Wada, became as real as the day he left Japan. Long, black hair fell across her brow, and her sultry eyes were half-closed with passion. When her mouth opened, Trent again heard the last words she spoke to him: “I’ll wait for you, forever.”
The image blurred and reformed into the beauteous face of Samantha Jones, whose long, blond hair flowed with enchantment in the wind. With puckered lips, she kissed the air, after which her sensuous voice proclaimed, “I’ll wait for you, forever.”
The fair-skinned goddess transformed into the equally alluring but darker complexioned Global Girl. Her seductive features drew ever closer. Cheek to cheek with Trent, she crooned, “I’ll wait for you, forever.”
Killer of Killers Page 5
