Level 26

by Anthony E. Zuiker

  He gave it to her, finally. Constance thanked him before he could ask about dinner, or maybe a couple of martinis at the Standard. She’d made the mistake of palling around with him for a few days early in his career—thinking a computer geek would be a good ally. She was right about that. Only, Ellis didn’t seem to get the hint that this was the extent of her interest in him. Their professional relationship had been one long, awkward dance ever since. As if her job wasn’t difficult enough.

  But finally she had a name: Kenneth Martin.

  And she had his home address.

  Never mind what she told Ellis—could it be Sqweegel?

  chapter 82

  Somewhere in Southern California

  3:45 P.M.

  The maniacal pecking thundered in the basement dungeon:

  ThwakwakwakwakwakwakWAKWAK.

  WAK.

  WAK.

  WAK.

  Sqweegel’s foot pushed the pedal. His delicate hands coaxed the zipper cloth forward, directly into the path of the throbbing metal head as it applied the stitches. It had to be right.

  After all, it was for the baby.

  Sqweegel continued his work in the nude while the cunt suckled her newborn. She was still tied down, save one arm—to hold the child.

  He’d watched them for a while. Making sure the newborn took to the nipple. Some don’t. That would have required other methods. Nothing, however, beats the first few sips of breast milk.

  The colostrum—that first hit from a mother’s teat—is a potent cocktail of vitamins and hormones, like one last hit of the divine before settling in for a life of pain and toil on the mortal plane of existence. It’s a brief sip of temporary invulnerability, including antibodies for every cold, flu, and disease the mother has ever fought off in her life. Sqweegel had been tempted to dribble a little on his tongue, just to see what had been denied him at birth. But no. The baby would need its strength if it was to endure the trials to come.

  Sqweegel had gazed down upon the newborn and saw that it was perfectly at peace. Still graced with the divine, most likely. The shock of the earthly plane hadn’t set in.

  Sqweegel had looked at its tiny features and, oh, yes, most definitely saw the resemblance.

  Now, though, he focused on finishing the baby’s first present.

  He lifted it up with both hands so he could admire it.

  The baby’s suit.

  Two little eyeholes. Mouth zipper—for when it cried too much. Two tiny nose slits, so it can smell everything. A bone-in zipper from the top of the head to the crack of the baby’s soft behind.

  “Come, little one,” Sqweegel said. “Let’s get dressed.”

  chapter 83

  He was coming for her. And there was nothing Sibby could do about it except stay alive and protect her child.

  Her sweet, sweet baby.

  Her limbs were bound to this stupid gurney, except one—her left arm. But that was useless, because it held her precious little daughter as she took her first sips of breast milk. She’d dreamed about this moment of absolute peace, having only read about it or heard how it had happened to some of her friends. She never imagined she’d be spending it in a dank, disgusting basement with a madman.

  A madman who was now standing next to the gurney, reaching out for the baby.

  The only weapons Sibby Dark had right now were her voice and her will to survive—for her baby’s sake.

  “You’re not going anywhere near my baby,” Sibby said.

  “My baby, my baby,” he mocked. “Listen to how selfish you sound, Sibby. Not even a thought about the father.”

  “You’re not her father, you freak. And I’m not letting go of her.”

  “I’m sure you think you mean that,” Sqweegel said. “But here’s the reality. Either you hand it over gently, or I sever your wrists with a hatchet and lift it myself from your bloody stumps. Do you want your baby’s first sounds to be your anguished wails for mercy? Do you want it to reach out and taste the tiny droplets of mommy blood?”

  Maybe this twitchy, herky-jerky monster in the white suit was one of those abused kids who grew up to dish out abuse on the rest of the world. He couldn’t be bargained with, but maybe he could be frightened.

  “You stop this right now,” she bellowed, looking him dead in his black little eyes. “I’m not afraid of you or your threats. I know your type. Skulking around because you’re too fucking petrified to step into the real world. I’ve laughed at people like you. I’m laughing at you now.”

  The freak looked at her for a moment, then cocked his head slowly to the left, as if his neck muscles were on a time delay.

  Then without warning a gloved fist whipped across her face. Sibby had never felt pain this savage or intense. The blow was hard enough to loosen teeth and fill her mouth with blood.

  She felt the weight on her arm lighten…and then disappear.

  Oh, God, no.

  When her vision cleared, she saw that the monster was holding her daughter.

  “Don’t hurt her,” she said, tasting the salt-copper of her own blood on her tongue. Her mouth felt thick and fat. The pity in her own voice shocked her. “Please, I’ll do anything you want, just don’t hurt her.”

  “I’m not going to kill it,” Sqweegel said, shaking his head. “If I wanted to do that, it’d be dead already.”

  “Don’t hurt my baby.”

  The masked freak snorted and walked away with the infant in his arms. Sibby watched him leave and was surprised to see how tender he was with her. This stick insect of a man who had punched, stabbed, cut, and tried to rape her. Infants were something else, apparently.

  Then he made his way to a minifridge and removed a small stick of butter. After placing her on a table, he proceeded to grease the newborn all over its pink body.

  The baby didn’t cry. She simply looked up at the man curiously. Was this what happened next? Was this the way the world worked?

  “See?” Sqweegel told Sibby. “It likes its father.”

  chapter 84

  4:45 P.M.

  Constance stepped outside into the late-afternoon California sunshine with a bottle of water. She twisted open the cap, took a swig, then recapped the bottle, which was mostly full.

  Then she pitched the bottle into a metal recycling receptacle and walked back into the building.

  After a minute or so, a teenager zipped by on a skateboard. He snapped the latch on the receptacle, flipped open the plastic lid, then removed the heavy-duty liner from the receptacle before snapping the lid back down. Then he was on his way, bag in hand. Anyone watching would assume the kid was on his way to an automated recycling machine, where he’d get maybe a buck or two to put toward his beer/weed/amplifier fund.

  Actually, it was going to Dark, who’d paid the kid $20 for the run—about two minutes of his time. Which would go a lot further toward procuring beer, weed, or an amplifier.

  With Wycoff and his Dark Arts goons watching their every step—both in reality and in cyberspace—Riggins, Constance, and Dark quickly agreed that the only safe way to communicate would be through old-school spy methods. Stuff nobody used anymore.

  Like the hidden message in the full water bottle trick.

  The bottle wasn’t really full; it had a false middle, which Constance had quickly assembled with a second bottle, some rubber cement, and a pair of scissors. The bottom half is full of water, just like the top half. But the message inside stays dry.

  Dark unscrewed the bottle, feeling the separation under the plastic label. He retrieved the handwritten note, which contained a simple address:

  6206 Yucca

  He knew the street; it was just off Hollywood Boulevard. It also made sense. The address was just a few blocks from the Methodist church Sqweegel had torched. Had he been in their backyard this whole time? It would explain why he moved about Los Angeles so easily.

  Maybe Sqweegel didn’t move here just to torment him. Maybe this was already his home.

  chapter 85
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  5:10 P.M.

  Dark returned to his rented room—a Super 8 on Western—and walked into the bathroom. He closed the door behind him and snapped off the light switch. With no outside window, there was a bare minimum of illumination.

  Dark didn’t have forever; he knew that Constance would soon be asked about her progress on those credit card receipts, and then Wycoff would have this address.

  And a man like Wycoff would not be interested in saving Sibby, no matter how good it made him look. He was beyond PR now. He wanted his tormentor erased, along with everybody else who knew about it.

  That included Dark and Sibby.

  Already he could hear the choppers overhead, whupping in the warm evening air as the sun fell down over the Pacific. They’d be making time, waiting for intelligence. Dark had to act faster. Think faster. Constance and Riggins could work only so much subterfuge.

  He’d stolen a car—something a few years old, shitty, nothing that would be missed—and abandoned it around the corner on Vista del Mar.

  There weren’t many single homes on this stretch of Yucca. A lot of apartment complexes, lofts, all within eyeshot of the famous Capitol Records building. Probably a lot of musicians here, needing to fix their eyes on that totem every so often, if for no other reason than to keep their dreams alive.

  Was that Sqweegel—a failed musician? Somebody wanting to outdo Manson? His creepy little poetry told Dark he had a musical ear, of sorts.

  No. It wasn’t about fame. This was beyond the trivial cares and concerns of mortal man. This was the business of God. Sqweegel was teaching mankind a lesson, one dead body at a time.

  Would Dark find another parable here?

  The house at 6206 was a single, painted eggshell blue, and in dire need of a new coat. There was no car out front. No lights inside the house.

  Dark leapt over the small wrought-iron gate surrounding the property and moved across the brown lawn quickly, dropping down when he reached a set of basement windows on the side of the house. Totally out of view.

  He listened. Nothing from inside the house. Just the ordinary hum of Los Angeles all around him.

  The basement window was plate glass. Dark felt the seconds ticking away in his blood, and he had an impulse to smash, unlock, and pounce.

  But no. Play this right. Like he would.

  Dark pulled the glass cutter from a small pouch attached to his waist. He rotated the blade, suctioned out the cut piece. Reached in. Unlocked the rusty latch. The window dropped open. Dark slid in.

  The cement floor was covered in feces—animal. Cobwebs in the corners. Upstairs, more of the same, only with a complete array of Chinese food menus piled by the front door, along with a healthy selection of real estate agent cards.

  The kitchen—nothing but a foul-smelling refrigerator. A container of salt on the counter. A pair of garden shears.

  The living room was empty except for a series of built-in bookshelves that were still packed with dusty volumes. From a quick glance at the perfectly arranged spines, Dark could tell the shelves contained nothing with a copyright date past 1970 or so. One book, however, caught his eye, because it was sticking out a fraction of an inch.

  The book was called Sinners and Sadists and was a cheapo compilation of short entries about famous murderers throughout world history. Sick reading for sick minds. Dark blew dust from the top, then cracked it open and saw that one of the pages had a bent corner. That page contained a short entry about Lizzie Borden, the woman long accused—but never convicted—of chopping her father and stepmother to bits with an axe. Borden was the O. J. Simpson of her time, the stuff of pop culture before there even was pop culture.

  Everything, from the book sticking out ever so slightly, to the dog-eared page, to the collection of books itself, was too weird to be coincidence.

  But to what end? What was Sqweegel trying to tell him? He’d never been this overt before. It was like a mass murderer leaving behind a copy of Helter Skelter.

  Dark continued searching the house.

  Closets, bathrooms, bedroom—nothing. No signs of habitation or life, except for a single bed left in a back upstairs room. Otherwise, it had been completely denuded of furnishing. But maybe that wasn’t the point of this place. Maybe this wasn’t where he lived. Then what was it for?

  Think like him. Would you live out in the open? Or would you use a house like this to practice squeezing yourself into little hidey holes?

  Yeah. Maybe.

  Dark started checking every space that had hinges or could be pried apart. No floor or ceiling was trusted until he tested it with his fists or fingers. No space was considered too small.

  Still nothing. No sign anyone had been here.

  And he heard the choppers in the air—seeming to be closer now. Maybe Constance hadn’t been able to hold them off any longer, and they were moving in.

  He returned to the back bedroom to the only clue. A single bed. Meant for a child? Small enough for him? But why? Dark ran his fingers over the thin, threadbare fitted sheet that wrapped around the mattress. No visible hair or stains. He dropped to one knee, checked under the bed.

  Where Dark saw a small piece of tan parchment paper, with a small pink bow knotted around its center, resting on top of a book. He imagined the patience it took to craft an object of beauty and hide it in such an ugly place. Evil of this magnitude would take the craftsmanship of an artist. Dark realized that he was nothing more than one element within a masterful performance, the equivalent of a musical note whose purpose could only be deduced from those around it, the end result a terrifying crescendo rung out by a hundred instruments playing a melody made up of tiny, inconsequential notes. Notes that were only inconsequential until they were arranged by a virtuoso.

  To read the birth announcement, log into LEVEL26.com and enter the code: noprints

  chapter 86

  6 P.M.

  Sibby couldn’t see much. Just some flashes of silver in the darkness. The monster had a thing about light. Too much of it, or too little. Never just enough.

  There was a metallic click, followed by another, and another. She could see the shape now. A tripod.

  And his sticklike arms were affixing a video camera to the top.

  At one point, he paused to turn his head—slowly, always slowly—to look in her direction. His beady black eyes made her blood freeze. Please look away. Go back to whatever it is you were doing. Just leave me alone already.

  Even though, clearly, he wasn’t finished with her.

  Sibby’s neck was fastened to the hospital gurney with a studded leather strap. The cold metal buckle dug into her chin. It was too tight to turn her head. Her wrists and ankles, meanwhile, were refastened to the gurney. Her hands and feet were starting to turn numb.

  Nor was he finished with the baby.

  Where was she?

  What had he done with her?

  Sqweegel was setting up something else now, something much taller than himself. He unraveled a dirty extension cord and affixed it to something on the ground, then—

  Bright lights stabbed Sibby in the eyes.

  chapter 87

  Hollywood

  6:20 P.M.

  Dark made it out of the Yucca Street house just as the first Dark Arts van pulled up to the front. Three agents leapt out, all dressed in black. Dark wondered whether the broken-nosed babysitter was among them. Or had they made him pay the ultimate price for his ineptitude at the airport?

  Dark was wearing black, too, so he crept along the lawn and made it over the fence without being noticed. It wasn’t long before he was back in the basement lab at 11000 Wilshire, alone, looking for trace of any kind on the parchment paper the monster had left for him.

  One a day will die has moved to another theater near you.

  Fingerprints? None. Touch DNA? Nope. Bodily fluids? Zero.

  Dark slammed his hands on the desk and nearly knocked a ten-thousand-dollar microscope onto the concrete floor. He wanted to scream, he wanted to run
, he wanted to find any tiny little piece of evidence that could lead him to Sibby.

  Instead he crept quietly out the basement door and crossed the parking lot to his car. He knew he couldn’t stay in the lab long without word getting back to Wycoff. Something had to break soon and he wanted to be mobile when it happened.

  As he keyed the ignition, his cell phone vibrated. The display told him the call was coming from Sibby. Of course, he knew better.

  “I’m coming for you,” Dark said.

  “I know, Steeeeeeeve,” Sqweegel said, drawing out the syllable.

  “Find a laptop. Our final conversation is about to begin.”

  “Listen, you son of a—”

  But the line went dead.

  Three seconds later, a text appeared with an IP address and a two-word message: “30 MINS.”

  There was no time for subterfuge. Dark needed Constance and Riggins in on this now. Sure, he needed the Special Circs computers and their signal-hunting capabilities, but he needed their brains even more.

  Whatever Sqweegel was planning, he wanted Dark to be watching alone. Dark was through playing this monster’s twisted games.

  Constance kept up the ruse on her end when she answered.

  “Brielle.”

  “It’s me.”

  “Make it fast. We’re swamped here.”

  “I’m going to text you an IP address,” Dark said. “Hide it if you can, but that’s not important right now. Track the feed any way you can.”

  “Yeah,” she said, then paused. “I’ll see what I can do. Like I said, we’re swamped.”

  “Patch me in, too.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Isn’t it approaching midnight out there? Go the hell home already.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Stop bothering me. Good-bye.”