Killer of Killers

by Mark M. DeRobertis

  “What about your distribution system in Los Angeles?” Trent inquired. “How do you conduct that business?”

  “On a regular basis, Mr. Soriah sends one of his couriers to provide for our clients on the West Coast. Mr. Stiles was in the process of doing just that when you killed him. He was going to see me afterward.”

  Trent thought of Samantha’s secret. So far, Manoukian’s story upheld hers. “What about these murders? Why are they happening? What do you plan on doing about it?”

  Manoukian squirmed. “These murders are the result of an unfortunate side effect, and it’s something we are trying to overcome. You see, there is a problem with the pheromone induced interaction between men and women who are using the drug at the same time.”

  “The pheromone induced interaction,” Trent repeated, as he remembered Samantha’s partial explanation.

  Manoukian continued. “We have discovered that pheromone production increases tremendously in people who are using the drug. Conversely, Eternals are abnormally sensitive to the pheromones in others. Typically, pheromones trigger sexual attraction, and they still do, but under the circumstances of both a man and a woman being treated by Eternity, the effects are often different when they are in contact with each other.”

  “Different? You mean murderous.”

  “Potentially, as we’ve seen, but not necessarily, and again, only in mixed company. It’s more accurate to say Eternity cancels pheromone effects under those conditions, but with some people it can reverse normal attraction to the point of violence.

  “Take Robinson’s case for instance. He, his wife, and sister-in-law were among the very first Eternals. After all, he was an established senator in the state where we needed legislation passed to ensure Eternity’s research and production remained consistent with the law. And everything seemed to go smoothly at first, but appearances were not the reality. The serum neutralized the couple’s mutual attraction, even as they became increasingly promiscuous. Then the tragic incident occurred. Robinson’s violent past was divulged with some investigation, and Dr. Bernstein uncovered the connection to the serum. Shortly thereafter, we were compelled to exclude women from treatment until the problem could be solved.”

  “And Stiles?” Trent wanted to hear Manoukian’s version.

  “Benjamin Stiles was a violent man his entire life. He became an Eternal the same time Josh did. When he made contact with the Bernstein family, their twin daughters were already users. They resisted him, and in the resulting scuffle, Stiles lost control and killed the entire family.”

  “And Flint?”

  “Yes, Flint was a violent man, as well. When he became an Eternal, we didn’t know that his wife was a user, too, like the others, and the same thing happened to them.”

  Trent lowered his gaze. He never liked drugs, and apparently, this Eternity was the epitome of drugs. But there was something about it that Manoukian and even Josh didn’t want Samantha to know. Trent wasn’t even sure he wanted to know. He wasn’t a scientist. He was a killer of killers, and as far as he knew, Abraham Soriah was not—and had never been—a killer. The room was silent until Josh said to Samantha, “I’m sure glad you aren’t using this stuff.”

  Samantha said nothing, but she peeked at Trent. He rolled his eyes, knowing it wasn’t just the FBI who got a sample from Stiles’ leather bag.

  To Josh’s comment, Manoukian responded, “Not to worry, Josh. Since the days of cavemen, siblings have been immune to each other’s pheromones.”

  “Besides,” Samantha added, “Josh isn’t a violent man.”

  Trent focused on the issue. “You said that Soriah won’t permit women to be Eternals until they solve this problem. What if they never solve it?”

  “Make no mistake, they will solve it,” Manoukian replied. “After all, what good would Soriah’s paradise be without the company of the fairer sex, eh, Mr. Smith?” He smiled and then looked at Samantha.

  Josh commented, “I would think that would be his next priority after he achieves the reversal of the aging process.”

  Trent knew it was no secret that Soriah’s current objective was to reverse aging, but to give it priority over the pheromone murders? He didn’t like the sound of that. “You were the one who started this whole thing,” he said to Manoukian. “If it took so many years to get steroids to stop aging, how much longer do you suppose it will take to reverse it?”

  “No one knows,” Manoukian said. “I am really only a distributor at this point. But I would like very much to regain control of what I started. If I do, I assure you Eternity will be marketed to the masses. Everyone will have the opportunity to improve their lives. No one will be denied, like Soriah has been doing and most certainly will continue to do. I hope you have come to see it the way we do. Soriah has a vision that isn’t unlike Adolph Hitler’s. He must be stopped. Will you help us?”

  Again, the room fell silent. All eyes focused on Trent. He sat unmoving with his elbows on the armrests. What seemed like a long time was only a matter of seconds when he spoke. “You want me to kill a man who has never killed anyone himself?”

  “Soriah may not have killed anyone,” Manoukian conceded, “but he is responsible for several murderers walking the streets, as you know.”

  “He hasn’t killed anyone,” Trent said again. “I am a killer of killers only. It is justice that I seek. Justice is my only solace. Without justice, I do no honor to myself or to the art I serve.”

  Manoukian’s eyes narrowed. “You talk about justice,” he sneered. “What about justice in the future? It is undeniable that future generations will suffer at the hands of Soriah’s super race. Don’t you realize the scope of those numbers? We’re talking about billions of people, Mr. Smith. Billions of people.”

  “Soriah hasn’t killed anyone,” Trent said yet again.

  “Then let me ask you this, Mr. Smith. If you could kill Adolph Hitler, Chairman Mao, Pol Pot, or Joseph Stalin before they murdered the millions that they did, would you?”

  Trent answered, “No, Mr. Manoukian, because if I did that, I would have murdered innocent men. I cannot take the life of another on the presumption of future guilt. There is no honor in a killing such as that. I would have nothing but a bloodlust that isn’t one step above that of a mad dog.”

  Frowning, Manoukian jumped to his feet. “I’m very sorry to hear that, Mr. Smith. I’m very sorry.”

  Trent rose to his feet, also. He looked at Samantha and then Josh. With no more words, he turned to leave, but as he did, Manoukian said, “The future is at stake, Mr. Smith. If you change your mind, I’ll be here. Please don’t hesitate to call me.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Trent snapped. “I work for no one, and that’s the way I like it.” He strutted to the double doors and, unwilling to wait for an automatic activation, shoved them aside.

  * * * *

  Karl Manoukian watched the doors sweep shut. He was speechless and noticed that neither Josh nor Samantha had anything further to say. After several moments, he broke the silence. “That’s all for tonight, my friends. Josh, we’ll meet tomorrow, bright and early.”

  The siblings stood to leave, but when they stepped toward the door, Karl spoke again. “Samantha, would you stay, please.” He used his most pleasant voice. “No need to wait, Josh. I’ll have her driven home safely.”

  Josh looked to Samantha, who said, “It’s okay, Josh, go ahead.”

  After Josh departed, Karl gestured to the sofa. “Please, sit down, my dear. I would like to talk for a few moments.”

  Samantha sat, as did Karl beside her.

  “Have I proven myself to you yet, Samantha?”

  “Proven yourself? What do you mean?”

  “Please,” Karl continued. “I have offered my love to you, but you won’t accept it. All these years I have been waiting for you. Haven’t I proven myself to you? What will it take to win your heart?”

  “Karl, I can’t promise my heart to anyone. But if you could promise me you’re not in thi
s just for the money... If you could convince me you really want to help people, I would think more highly of you.”

  “I have sunk my entire fortune into Eternity. You can’t blame me for trying to earn some of it back.”

  “No, I don’t, but if Trent is right, and you only sell to the rich people of the world, then that makes you almost as bad as Abraham Soriah.”

  Karl furrowed his brow. “So it’s all about Trent and what he wants,” he said. “You’ve been influenced by his sentiment, I see.”

  “No, not at all. I want Eternity to help everyone. Not just those very few who can afford inflated prices. Surely, you knew that. Didn’t you?”

  “Of course, my dear,” Karl replied. “And if I were to tell you that I would work with the government to establish an equitable distribution program, so the benefits of Eternity could be made available to all? I would like to know... What would you think of me then?”

  Samantha’s eyes softened. “I would think that you are a very decent man, Karl. I would think that you would be worthy of the Nobel Prize.”

  It wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but Karl smiled anyway. “The Nobel Prize,” he echoed, despondently. “And I would be honored to receive it. Yet there is another prize I seek. One I value far more. She has blond hair, incredible eyes, and she sits before me even now.”

  Samantha turned away, as if she didn’t like hearing the words. Then she turned to Karl again, her eyes searching and hopeful. “If you were in charge, you would submit Eternity to the World Health Organization?”

  “Well, let’s not get carried away, my love. I have accounts to settle and payrolls to administer. People depend on me. I do need to make a profit, you understand. Surely, you do understand.”

  “I understand profit,” Samantha said, “but if only the elite can afford this, then everything Trent said is true.” Her face saddened, and she rose to her feet. “Now, please, you said you’d have me driven home.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Samantha departed, and Karl felt scorned yet again. Despite his lofty achievements, everything he built had collapsed all around him. With the successful development of his wonder drug, he should be the most powerful man in the world. But another powerful man had usurped his destiny. And now, a new man with a different kind of power had become a player. This man had the power to usurp the heart of the woman he loved, and Karl realized that was the power he envied the most.

  * * * *

  It was only midmorning, but the heat in Oakland’s industrial district already sweltered in the dirt and billowing dust. Factories spewed their pollutants through sky-high smoke stacks, and large trucks barreled down smog-filled freeways. Just off the docks and inside an empty warehouse, Trent Smith, on his knees, faced three metal buckets—each filled with a collection of different sized stones.

  At the moment, he was thrusting rigid fingers into the center bucket of pebble-sized stones. The force of each strike alternately penetrated the stones to mid-forearm, again and again. He clenched his teeth and grimaced but made no sound. As in a trance, he dismissed the concept of time. Perspiration flowed over his brows and flooded his eyes. He welcomed the resulting sting. The salty fluid invaded his mouth and compounded a rabid thirst. He didn’t submit.

  To anyone else, Trent realized this wouldn’t be training. The self-imposed ordeal tested the fringes of human endurance. He knew that it was the difference in winning or losing every hand-to-hand conflict. Whether in a ring back in Japan or in a death struggle stateside, the excruciating preparation forged his winning edge.

  Hours passed, and Trent switched to a larger set of stones. Into the bucket he hurled his fists. One after the other, he maintained the movement as in a ritual. He increased the force of each delivery, resulting in his arms buried to the elbows. Again, hours passed. A drenched T-shirt clung to his aching back, while his knees were centered in a pool of sweat on the concrete floor.

  The motion became torturous—each strike an enormous effort. Both arms seemed to carry the weight of trucks as they ruptured the fragmented granite. Trent’s rational mind begged him to stop. He paid no heed. Twenty years of like training hardened bones of steel. It was the way he conditioned in Japan, and crossing the Pacific afforded no change of habit.

  Trent moved to the last of the pails. It contained an even larger set of stones. Into it he flung his elbows, one after the other. Each impact buried an arm to mid-bicep, and again the hours passed. His body throbbed, but a seething hatred for those who preyed on innocents fueled him on. Every strike bore witness the contempt he harbored for years beneath a superficial sheen of contrived civility.

  Eventually, Trent noticed long shadows cast by declining light sifting through glassless windows, and he stepped to his feet. Stretching his hands into the air, he let out a scream pulled from his very soul. It echoed throughout the vacant building and into the streets, but only feral cats heard the cry. Feline heads whirled around, and pointed ears twisted. With arched backs and quilled hair, they hissed and ran away.

  For the session finale, Trent stood between two beams of wood, which supported the empty upper rooms. Reaching the extreme limits of his stamina, he sustained the workout by swinging his forearms against them. Soon, he switched to kicks, and again the hours passed. Lastly, he alternated forearms and calves. Having started at sunrise, the training only finished when the moon’s full face granted her approval through the gaping window. Trent absorbed the lunar tranquility and cherished the stellar reunion.

  Only then he snatched a plastic bottle from a nearby shelf and guzzled the soothing liquid. With a towel on his neck, he hiked along the bay where boaters returned from their day in the sun.

  Shortly, Trent passed the vast green acres of a golf course. He appreciated honed skills, but such things were not for him. For Trent, it was all about improving his existence. The many hours he spent today increased both his physical and mental conditioning. For that, his body became a better fighting machine than it was the day before. He would have it no other way.

  * * * *

  It was late evening, and Trent sat in his living room chair in front of his flickering television. A glass of water dripped an icy sweat over his fingers, and as was his habit, he channel-surfed with indifference while multiple thoughts overflowed in his brain. Sporadic images of Samantha, Susie, Josh, and the two executives flashed one to the other.

  The sounds and sensations of his recent experiences blended indiscernibly until he found himself in the middle of a ring. It was Japan of last year. He stood alone, facing a Chinese Kung Fu master. The fight lasted longer than previous bouts, but he paced it well and knew the match was his.

  Trent heard the cheers. “Midori no Me no Tora!” Over and over again. “Midori no Me no Tora!” “Midori no Me no Tora!” He panned the crowd. Asian faces smiled and waved, attesting devotion, happy and proud.

  There were also cheers for his opponent. A large group of spectators had crossed the Sea of Japan to witness the fight.

  The Chinese champion hurled another barrage at Trent. Again, he ducked, dodged, and parried every strike. No blows landed.

  Trent countered with his own flurry. Faking roundhouses, he connected with the Seiken, Hiraken, and Ippon-Ken blows. Next, he threw the more powerful Mawashi, Ura, and Gyaku-Zuki punches. To finish, Trent landed the Tettsui, deliberately avoiding targets where the strike would be lethal. The man from Beijing was stunned, and Trent executed a Kane Suta, and reapplied the Tatsumaki Shime. The flying scissors throw took his foe down, and the chokehold would win the match. He wouldn’t be fooled again.

  Trent heard the Chinese corner call for a penalty. There were no penalties. He would win the match. Trent’s opponent was out, and he released the hold. This time he was sure.

  Chinese staffers glared with a palpable malice. Medical personnel tended to the motionless contestant. People looked worried. Women covered their mouths. The Chinese fighter didn’t respond. He was limp and pale. Did he die?

  “Murde
rer!” people yelled in assorted Asian tongues. “Go back to your land of murder!” “Go back to America, your home of murderers!”

  Trent confronted the crowd. People backed off afraid. As if he would spit a cobra’s deadly venom, they cleared a path and turned away.

  No one cheered Midori no Me no Tora ever again.

  Trent swept his head clean of the memories, but one thing remained—a resolve to follow through with his agenda. As for what he learned of the details involving the murders, to him, it didn’t matter. Hormones, pheromones, or whatever, each man freely chose to murder. In his mind, all of them were responsible for their decisions, and all of them were going to pay for their crimes. It was only a matter of time.

  The evening hours mounted, and Trent realized he was standing before an eerie cloud of dense and swirling fog. He peered into it, confused as to where he was and why he was there. Could it be he was dreaming?

  A large black man formed inside the haze. He stepped forward, looked into Trent’s eyes, and shouted, “Who’s da Bomb?” Then he backed away and vanished in the mist.

  Another black man emerged. His bulk matched the first man’s, and he shouted in an even louder voice, “Who’s da Bomb?” He backed away until he, also, vanished in the mist.

  Trent remained unresponsive until a third black hulk materialized. This one boomed the loudest of all, “Who’s da Bomb?”

  Trent popped awake by the noise of a TV advertisement featuring the rap star Shalom DaBomb. The name caught his attention, and up he sat. The first thing he saw on the television screen was the face of the rapper announcing, “I’m da bomb!”

  The commercial advised the television audience that the controversial performer had just released a new book about his life and experiences. It featured his rise to fame and the killings to which he confessed. He planned a New York appearance to promote the publication with a show in Central Park followed by an autographing session at the Manhattan Central Mall.