The skin Gods jbakb-2

by Richard Montanari

  Kevin Byrne was her partner. It may have been a department operation, but it was his show. It was his daughter.

  She made her way back to the street, looked both ways. Detectives and uniformed officers and FBI agents were at either end. She walked back down the alley, drew her weapon, and stepped through the door.

  89

  He moved through a lair of small rooms. What had once been an interior space designed for retail commerce had many years ago been remodeled into a maze of nooks and alcoves and cubbyholes.

  Designed just for this purpose? Byrne wondered.

  Down the narrow confines of a tight hallway, gun waist-high. He felt a larger space open before him, the temperature dropping a degree or two.

  The main room of the retail space was dark, crowded with broken furniture, retail fixtures, a pair of dusty air compressors. There was no light streaming through the windows. They were painted with thick black enamel. As Byrne ran his Maglite around the large space he saw that the once brightly colored boxes that were stacked in the corners held a decade of mildew. The air-what air there was-was fat with a stagnant, bitter heat that clung to the walls, to his clothes, his skin. The smell of mold and mice and sugar was dense.

  Byrne clicked off his flashlight, tried to adjust to the dim light. To his right were a series of glass retail counters. He could see brightly colored paper inside. Shiny red paper. He had seen it before. He closed his eyes, touched the wall. There had been happiness here. The laughter of children. All of that stopped years earlier when an ugliness entered, a morbid soul that devoured the joy. He opened his eyes.

  Ahead was another hallway, another door, its jamb chipped and splintered years earlier. Byrne looked more closely. Fresh wood. Someone had recently brought something large through the doorway, damaging the jamb. Lighting equipment? he thought.

  He put his ear to the door, listened. Silence. This was the room. He felt it. He felt it in a place that did not know his heart or his mind. He slowly pushed open the door. And saw his daughter. She was tied to a bed. His heart shattered into a million pieces. My sweet little girl, what have I done to you?

  Then: Movement. Fast. A flash of red before him. The sound of fabric snapping in the still, hot air. Then the sound was gone.

  Before he could react, before he could bring his weapon up, he felt a presence to his left. Then the back of his head exploded.

  90

  With dark-adapted eyes, Jessica edged her way down the long hallway, moving deeper into the center of the building. Soon she came upon a makeshift control room. There were two VHS editing decks, their green and red lights glowing cataracts in the gloom. This was where the Actor had dubbed the tapes. There was also a television. On it was the website image she had seen at the Roundhouse. The light was dim. There was no sound.

  Suddenly, on screen, there was movement. She saw the monk in the red robe move across the frame. Shadows on the wall. The camera lurched to the right. Colleen was strapped to the bed in the background. More shadows, darting and scurrying over the walls.

  Then a figure approached the camera. Too quickly. Jessica couldn't see who it was. In a second the screen went to static, then to blue.

  Jessica tore the rover from her belt. Radio silence no longer mattered. She turned up the volume, keyed it, listened. Silence. She banged the rover against her palm. Listened. Nothing.

  The rover was dead.

  Son of a bitch.

  She wanted to fling it against the wall, but thought better of it. There would be plenty of time for rage very soon.

  She flattened her back against the wall. She felt the rumble of a truck pass by. She was on an outside wall. She was six to eight inches away from daylight. She was miles from safety.

  She followed the cables coming out of the back of the monitor. They snaked up to the ceiling, down the hallway to her left.

  Of all the uncertainties of the next few minutes, of all the unknowns lurking in the darkness around her, one thing was clear. For the foreseeable future, she was on her own.

  91

  He was dressed like one of the extras they had seen at the train station-red monk's robe, black mask.

  The monk had struck him from behind, taken his service Glock. Byrne had fallen to his knees, dizzied but not out. He closed his eyes, waiting for the thunder of the gunshot, the white infinity of his death. But it didn't come. Not yet.

  Byrne now knelt in the center of the room, his hands behind his head, his fingers interlaced. He faced the camera on the tripod in front of him. Colleen was behind him. He wanted to turn around, to see her face, to tell her it was going to be all right. He couldn't risk it.

  When the man in the monk's robe touched him, Byrne's mind reeled with the images. The visions pulsed. He felt queasy, light-headed. Colleen. Angelika. Stephanie. Erin.

  Afield of torn flesh. An ocean of blood.

  "You didn't take care of her," the man said.

  Was he talking about Angelika? Colleen?

  "She was a great actress," he continued. He was behind him now. Byrne tried to calculate his position. "She would have been a star. And I don't mean just a star. I mean one of those rare supernova stars who captures the attention of not only the public, but also the critics. Ingrid Bergman. Jeanne Moreau. Greta Garbo."

  Byrne tried to trace his steps into the bowels of this building. How many turns had he taken? How close was he to the street?

  "When she died, they just moved on," he continued. "You just moved on."

  Byrne tried to organize his thoughts. Never easy when there may be a gun pointed at you. "You… have to understand," he began. "When the medical examiner rules a death accidental, there's nothing the Homicide Unit can do about it. There's nothing anyone can do about it. The ME rules, the city records it. That's how it's done."

  "Do you know why she spelled her name that way? With a k? Her given name was spelled with a c. She changed it."

  He wasn't listening to a word Byrne was saying. "No."

  "Angelika is the name of a famous art house theater in New York."

  "Let my daughter go," Byrne said. "You have me."

  "I don't think you understand the play."

  The man in the monk's robe walked around in front of Byrne. In his hand was a leather mask. It was the same mask worn by Julian Matisse in Philadelphia Skin. "Do you know Stanislavksy, Detective Byrne?"

  Byrne knew he had to keep the man talking. "No."

  "He was a Russian actor and teacher. He founded the Moscow Theater in 1898. He more or less invented method acting."

  "You don't have to do this," Byrne said. "Let my daughter go. We can end this without any more bloodshed."

  The monk put Byrne's Glock under his arm for a moment. He began to unlace the leather mask. "Stanislavsky once said: 'Never come into the theatre with mud on your feet. Leave your dust and dirt outside. Check your little worries, squabbles, petty difficulties with your outside clothing-all the things that ruin your life and draw your attention away from your art-at the door.'

  "Please put your hands behind your back for me," he added.

  Byrne complied. His legs were crossed behind him. He felt the weight on his right ankle. He began to lift the cuff of his pants.

  "Have you left your petty difficulties at the door, Detective? Are you ready for my play?"

  Byrne lifted the hem another inch. His fingers touched the steel as the monk dropped the mask onto the floor in front of him.

  "In a moment, I will ask you to put on this mask," the monk said. "And then we will begin."

  Byrne knew he could not take the chance of a shootout in here, not with Colleen in the room. She was behind him, strapped to the bed. Crossfire would be deadly. "The curtain is up." The monk stepped to the wall, flipped a switch. A single bright spotlight filled the universe. It was time. He had no choice.

  In one smooth motion Byrne drew the SIG-Sauer from his ankle holster, leapt to his feet, turned toward the light, and fired.

  92

  The gunsh
ots were close, but Jessica couldn't tell where they came from. Was it this building? Next door? Upstairs? Had the detectives outside heard it?

  She spun around in the darkness, Glock leveled. She could no longer see the door through which she had entered. It was too dark. She had lost her bearings. She had traversed a series of small rooms, and she had forgotten how to get back.

  Jessica sidled up to a narrow archway. A musty curtain hung over the opening. She peered through. Ahead, another dark room. She stepped through the opening, her weapon out front, her Maglite over the top. To the right, a small Pullman kitchen. It smelled of old grease. She ran her Maglite along the floor, the walls, the sink. The kitchen had not been used in years.

  Not for cooking, that is.

  There was blood on the side of the refrigerator, a wide fresh swath of scarlet. The blood streaked toward the floor in thin rivulets. Blood splatter from a gunshot.

  Beyond the kitchen was yet another room. From where Jessica stood it looked like an old stockroom, lined with broken shelves. She continued forward, and nearly tripped over the body. She knelt down. It was a man. The right side of his head had been almost taken off.

  She shone her Maglite on the figure. The man's face was destroyed, a wet mass of tissue and shredded bone. Brain matter slithered onto the dusty floor. The man was wearing jeans and running shoes. She moved her Maglite up the body.

  And saw the PPD logo on the dark blue T-shirt.

  Bile rose in her throat, thick and sour. Her heart kicked hard in her chest, rattling her arms, her hands. She tried to calm herself as the horrors piled up. She had to get out of this building. She had to breathe. But she had to find Kevin first.

  She raised her weapon out front rolled to her left, her heart hammering in her chest. The air was so thick it felt like liquid entering her lungs. Sweat poured down her face, salting her eyes. She wiped at them with the back of one hand.

  She summoned her courage, slowly glanced around the corner, down the wide hallway. Too many shadows, too many places to hide. The grip of her weapon now felt slick in her hand. She changed hands, wiped her palm on her jeans.

  She glanced back over her shoulder. The far door led to the hallway, the stairs, the street, safety. Ahead of her lay the unknown. She stepped forward, slid into an alcove. Eyes scanning the interior horizon. More shelves, more cases, more display counters. No movement, no sound. Just the clock-hum of silence.

  Staying low, she moved down the hall. At the far end was a door, perhaps leading to what was once a stockroom or employee lounge. She edged forward. The doorjamb was battered, chipped. She slowly turned the knob. Unlocked. She threw open the door, scanned the room. The scene was surreal, sickening: A big room, twenty by twenty… impossible to clear from the entrance… bed to the right… a single overhead bulb… Colleen Byrne tied to the four posts… Kevin Byrne standing in the middle of the room… kneeling infront of Byrne is the monk in the red robe… Byrne has a gun to the man's head… Jessica glanced into the corner. The camera was smashed to bits. No one back at the Roundhouse, or anywhere else, was watching this.

  She reached deep inside herself, to a place unknown to her, and stepped fully into the room. She knew that this moment, this brutal aria, would score the rest of her life.

  "Hey, partner," Jessica said, softly. There were two doors to the left. To the right, a huge window, painted black. She was so disoriented that she had no idea onto what street the window faced. She had to turn her back on those doors. It was dangerous, but there was no choice.

  "Hey," Byrne replied. He sounded calm. His eyes were cold emerald stones in his face. The monk in the red robe was motionless, kneeling in front of him. Byrne had the barrel of a weapon to the base of the man's skull. Byrne's hand was firm and steady. Jessica she could see that it was a SIG-Sauer semi-auto. It was not Byrne's service weapon.

  Don't Kevin.

  Don't.

  "You okay?" Jessica asked.

  "Yes."

  His answer was too fast, too clipped. He was operating on some untamed energy, not reason. Jessica was about ten feet away. She needed to close the distance. He needed to see her face. He needed to see her eyes. "So, what are we going to do?" Jessica tried to sound as conversational as possible. Nonjudgmental. For a moment, she wondered if he had heard her. He had.

  "I'm going to put an end to all this," Byrne said. "This all has to stop."

  Jessica nodded. She pointed her gun at the floor. But she didn't holster it. She knew the move was not lost on Kevin Byrne. "I agree. It's over, Kevin. We've got him." She took a step closer. Eight feet away, now. "Good work."

  "I mean all of it. It all has to stop."

  "Okay. Let me help."

  Byrne shook his head. He knew she was trying to work him. "Walk away, Jess. Just turn around, go back through that door, and tell them you couldn't find me."

  "I won't do that."

  "Walk away."

  "No. You are my partner. Would you do that to me?"

  She had come close with that, but she hadn't reached him. Byrne didn't look up, didn't take his eyes of the monk's head. "You don't understand."

  "Oh, I do. I swear to God, I do." Seven feet. "You can't-" she began. Wrong word. Wrong word. "You… don't want to go out like this."

  Byrne finally looked at her. She had never seen a man so committed to an action. His jaw was set, his brow narrowed. "It doesn't matter."

  "Yes it does. Of course it does."

  "I've seen more than you have, Jess. A lot more."

  She took another step closer. "I've seen my share."

  "I know. It's just that you still have a chance. You can get out before it takes you down. Walk away."

  One more step. She was five feet away now. "Just hear me out. Hear me out, and if you still want me to walk, I will. Okay?"

  Byrne's eyes shifted toward her, back. "Okay."

  "You put the gun away, no one has to know," she said. "Me? Hell, I didn't see a thing. In fact, when I walked in the room here, you were putting him in cuffs." She reached behind her, dangled a pair of cuffs on an index finger. Byrne didn't respond. She tossed the cuffs onto the floor at his feet. "Let's bring him in."

  "No." The figure in the monk's robe began to shake.

  Here it comes. You've lost him.

  She reached. "Your daughter loves you, Kevin."

  A flicker. She'd gotten to him. She stepped closer. Three feet, now. "I was there with her every day when you were in the hospital," she said. "Every day. You are loved. Don't throw it away."

  Byrne hesitated, wiping the sweat from his eyes. "I…"

  "Your daughter's watching." Outside, Jessica heard sirens, the roar of big engines, the screech of tires. It was the SWAT team. They'd heard the gunfire after all. "SWAT's here, partner. You know what that means. Ponderosa time."

  Another step forward. Arm's length. She heard footsteps approach the building. She was losing him. It was going to be too late.

  "Kevin. You have something to do."

  Byrne's face was laced with sweat. It looked like tears. "What? What do I have to do?"

  "You have a picture to take. At the Eden Roc."

  Byrne half-smiled, and there was a world of heartache in it.

  Jessica glanced at his weapon. Something was wrong. There was no magazine. It wasn't loaded.

  She then saw movement in the corner of the room. She looked at Colleen. Her eyes. Terrified. Angelika's eyes. Eyes that were trying to tell her something.

  But what? Then she looked at the girl's hands. And knew as-time jogged, slowed, crawled, as Jessica spun, weapon raised, two hands. Another monk in a blood- red robe was nearly upon her, his steel weapon high, pointed at her face. She heard the click of the hammer. Saw the turn of the cylinder.

  No time to bargain. No time to deal. Just the shiny black mask in that tornado of red silk. I haven't seen a friendly face in weeks… Detective Jessica Balzano fired. And fired.

  93

  There is a moment, after the taking of a life,
a time when the human soul weeps, when the heart takes harsh inventory.

  The smell of cordite hung thick in the air.

  The coppery scent of fresh blood filled the world.

  Jessica looked at Byrne. They would be forever linked by this moment, by the events that had occurred in this dank and ugly place.

  Jessica found that she was still holding her weapon out, a two-handed death grip. Smoke seeped from the barrel. She felt the tears dam up behind her eyes. She fought them, lost. Time passed. Minutes? Seconds?

  Kevin Byrne gently took her hands in his, and eased the gun out.

  94

  Byrne knew that Jessica had saved him. He would never forget. He would never be able to pay her in full.

  No one has to know…

  Byrne had held his gun to the back of Ian Whitestone's head, mistakenly believing he was the Actor. When he had shot the lights out, there had been noises in the darkness. Crashes. Stumbling. Byrne had been disoriented. He couldn't risk firing again. When he lashed out with the butt of the pistol he had connected with flesh and bone. When he turned the overhead light on, the monk was on the floor in the center of the room.

  The images he had gotten were from Whitestone's own blackened life-what he had done to Angelika Butler, what he had done to all the women on the tapes they had found in Seth Goldman's hotel room. Whitestone had been bound and gagged beneath his mask and robe. He had tried to tell Byrne who he was. Byrne's gun had been empty, but a full magazine was in his pocket. If Jessica had not come through that door…

  He would never know.

  At that moment a battering ram crashed through the painted picture window. Dazzlingly bright daylight flooded the room. Within seconds a dozen very nervous detectives spilled in after, weapons drawn, adrenaline raging.