by Lee Driver
CHAPTER 12
October 10, 7:02 a.m.
He could see between the waffle weave of the box and almost wished he couldn’t. The screams were deafening but there wasn’t enough room for him to clap his hands over his ears. He tried closing his eyes tight but he wanted to be ready to run if the monster saw him. It was searching, panting from room to room, sniffing, as if it could smell his body scent. Listening, as if it could hear his breathing or his heart beating.
He had seen creatures like this in comic books—the hairy body, misshapen head, feet large and clawed, and when it walked it took unusual leaping paces. Its hands were also unusually large with razor-sharp talons. The eyes, so large. Pupils yellow and slitted, like a cat’s, but these were ringed in blood red. Now it swiveled its large head toward the playroom, cocked its head as it sized up the storage chest. Its hideous mouth grinned with realization and it took three long steps toward his hiding place.
“NO!” Sherlock jerked to a sitting position. The door connecting the two hotel rooms flew open and Marty stood in his checkered boxer shorts, dark socks pulled up to his knees, a basketball-shaped stomach curling over the edge, and a Glock 9mm held between his hands, finger on the trigger.
“What the hell?!!” Marty lowered his gun and leaned against the doorjamb. “I am going to have a coronary hanging around you.”
“Sorry.” Sherlock swung his legs over the side of the bed and took shakey gulps of air. He wore just pajama bottoms, dark and silky. “Damn nightmares. Always the same.” He stumbled to the table where his laptop and notes lay.
“Should try getting more than a couple hours sleep,” Marty said.
“Not if that’s all I see when I close my eyes.”
“I already made some coffee.” Marty went back into his room and returned several minutes later wearing dark blue pants, unbuttoned shirt hanging loose over his pants, and carrying a mug of coffee. “You take it black, right?”
“Yeah.” Sherlock reached up to rake a hand through his hair when he noticed the palm of his hand caked in blood.
“What happened here?” Marty grabbed Sherlock’s hand.
Sherlock put his glasses on and studied the injury. The cut was jagged and started to bleed again when he touched it. “I think I cut it on a glass.”
“This better be good. Getting me up at the crack of dawn.” Skizzy settled in behind his computer and turned his chair to face Dagger’s. He leaned back, arms folded across his unbuttoned camouflage shirt exposing a tattered undershirt. He hardly blinked as Dagger retold the story given to him last night by Sergeant Marty Flynn and Professor Sherlock. When Dagger finished, Skizzy seemed to work his tongue inside his mouth, sucked air through a gap between two front teeth, then muttered, “Done?”
Dagger shrugged as Skizzy turned to his computer to see what last night’s database search found. After a few seconds, Dagger said, “You don’t seem very surprised.”
“Nothing surprises me any more.” His gaze shifted so quickly back to Dagger, it seemed as if his eyes were tethered to his head by elastic. “Just like nothing surprises you any more.” Returning his attention back to the computer screen, Skizzy mumbled, “It’s probably some damn government experiment got loose. Although in all those old werewolf movies, if you are scratched or bitten by one, you become one. I’d keep an eye on that Sherlock guy if I were you.”
“Sergeant Flynn already checked him up one side and down the other.”
“And we know how thorough cops can be.”
Dagger shook the cobwebs from his head and poured two cups of coffee from the thermos he brought, shoved one toward Skizzy. A pamphlet pinned to the bulletin board on the wall caught his attention. He lifted the top page and studied it.
Dagger said, “Isn’t this the census form that was supposed to be returned months ago?”
Without looking away from the monitor, Skizzy replied, “Yep. And that’s where it’s staying. What the hell does Big Brother need to know what kinda plumbing I got, how much I pay for gas, what time I leave for work? For what? So someone can rob the place while I’m gone?”
Dagger smiled at his friend, his gaze sweeping the makeshift bunker in the workroom beneath Skizzy’s Pawn Shop.
In between the pounding of the keyboard, Skizzy asked, “Did you fill one out?”
“Uhhh.” Dagger smiled behind the rim of his cup. “Simon must have lost it in the mail.”
“Where’s Sara today? Thought she might be coming with you.”
Everyone expected Sara to be with him, at least the men. They couldn’t get enough of her. Her youthful innocence was refreshing. Sheila preferred he not be seen with Sara, any time, anywhere. Sheila had a green streak the size of Texas, but he refused to listen to her urgings which bordered on demanding, that he find some place else to live and work.
Dagger said, “I asked Sara to take Einstein to the parrot doctor. He’s been acting strange lately.”
“Pity.” Skizzy touched several more keys and pointed to the screen. “This Paul Addison disappeared off the face of the earth in 1998. There are several thousand dudes somewhat identical in description but nothing exact. No charge cards. No employment I.D.s with a match.”
“Try disguises. Brown hair, mustache, maybe long hair.”
“Needle in a haystack,” Skizzy muttered. He brought Paul Addison’s picture back up on the screen. There was something eerie about his stare. The pupils were black holes, pinpoints with nothing behind them. “Guy’s got what my Pappy called doll’s eyes. Ain’t no life behind them. Soulless.”
Dagger clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back. Skizzy was right. The youthful, innocent face Dagger had seen on his screen last night did have that eerie quality. “Like Ed Gein and Charlie Manson,” he said.
Skizzy tapped a few keys and placed a box around that portion of the face. “I could try to match up the eyes only. Although there are probably thousands in our prisons now with them eyes.” He mumbled under his breath, a conversation with himself. “Probably clonings done by the government, maybe the only thing they couldn’t change was them eyes. All the clones got the same eyes.” He lifted a paper plate under his chin as he took a bite of the homemade cranberry nut bread Dagger had brought. Fresh from Sara’s kitchen. He brushed crumbs from his chin, careful that none fell on his keyboard. “Could search for every new home buyer and renter since ninety-eight in Northwest Indiana and the entire Chicagoland area. Though I think I’ll need to buy another box of printer paper.”
“There has to be an easier way to narrow our search.” Dagger shielded his eyes from the bright fluorescent bulbs hugging the ceiling. Elbow on the table he slumped down in the chair and pressed a fist to his chin. He fingered the remains of several Micks lying in an empty cigar box. He heard Skizzy’s chair roll over to another computer and more clicking of keys. Several seconds later he heard a whooshing noise but was too exhausted to lift his head. He didn’t even flinch when a dragonfly coasted over, turned and swayed, like a hang glider running out of steam.
“Damn, you really must be tired.” Skizzy punched a few more keys and the dragonfly landed on the table.
“Just like the details of this case didn’t surprise you, well, nothing I see in this place surprises me.” The object was life size and when its delicate wings settled down, Dagger picked up the dragonfly and examined the metal insect. “Audio, visual?”
Skizzy explained, “Not yet. It’s aerodynamically correct. Scientists have found a way to duplicate the movements of flying insects. I hacked into the government boys’ site. Built me one but don’t know yet how they plan to use them.”
Dagger’s eyes slowly surveyed the room. “Where are you hiding the controls?”
Skizzy tapped the keyboard and the dragonfly took off. “Just like the Micks.”
“Too bad you can’t train it to be a hunting dog. Give it a sniff of a suspect and let him find the guy.”
Skizzy tapped the computer mouse, maneuvering the dragonfly to a bookcase, but h
e misjudged the height of the shelving. The metal insect clanged against the edge and clattered to the floor. “That’s why. Needs to be perfected.” He rolled his chair back to the first computer, the wheels clattering along the linoleum. He tapped the mouse and the screen came to life. “I checked our Micks.”
Dagger turned his attention to the surveillance tapes from the Evidence Room. “No one suspicious?” he asked.
“Nope.” Skizzy shoved another piece of bread in his mouth and wiped the crumbs with the back of his hand. “No one walked away with any weapons.” He washed it down with a slug of coffee then grabbed a vacuum the size of a toothbrush and ran it over the keyboard. “Just regular shit and everyone accessed it using the scanner. No one jimmied a lock or nothin’.”
Another monitor embedded in the wall buzzed. The screen showed two youths hanging around the outside of the store. The sleeves of their tee shirts had been cut off revealing colorful art tattoos on their upper arms. One had a loop earring in his eyebrow. They both looked like they ran out of money before the barber could finish the job. Their heads were shaved accept for a patch of hair on the top which was long and pulled back in a ponytail.
The front door to Skizzy’s Pawn Shop was kept locked. And any time anyone was near the entrance, a monitor would sound.
“This should be fun.” Skizzy pressed a button. His voice blared through the intercom outside the door. “What do you two want?” The two boys jumped back, looked around the door to see where the voice was coming from. “I don’t sell drugs and I don’t sell weapons. State your business,” Skizzy barked. The two youths took off. “Damn kids,” he muttered. “Look at how the hell they got their hair. Like they didn’t know whether they wanted a buzz cut or a Mohawk.”
Dagger laughed, eyeing his friend whose random tufts of gray hair looked as if he had experimented with a pair of scissors himself or had gotten too close to the barbecue grill. “You’re having way too much fun with that.” He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. He should probably be glad it wasn’t warm in the room because he could very easily take a nap.
“Why are you so tired?” Skizzy passed the thermos of coffee to Dagger. A little gleam glistened in his eyes. “Sara keeping you up?”
Dagger just stared blankly at yet another friend with innuendo and winky-winky type comments. Finally, he said, “I told you, Einstein wasn’t feeling good.”
“Uh huh, uh huh.” Skizzy turned his attention back to the computer. “Well, lookie here,” he said, pointing to the screen. “We only have ourselves about thirty-six-hundred matches in the sick eyes category. Want my advice?”
Dagger blinked slowly, almost afraid to ask, suspecting exactly what he was going to say.
Skizzy leaned in, whispered as if his own walls had listening devices. “You gotta bring him to you.”
CHAPTER 13
October 10, 8:12 a.m.
Marty Flynn clutched his take-out cup as if attempting to draw some heat through the fibers. He stared at Professor Sherlock in his herringbone sportscoat, V-neck sweater and starched shirt collar. He almost expected him to pull out a pipe to complete the picture. Sherlock paced in back of the wooden horses which had been erected to keep traffic from flowing through Camden Parkway. Drivers were being re-routed to Route 12.
Just a routine traffic accident, according to the police scanner. But Sherlock had convinced Marty that there could be a little more to even the most routine accident.
Nature had left its icy breath on shaded patches of grass, and the pavement was littered with wind-swept leaves.
“Sorry I’m late,” Padre said when he approached. “Come on. Walk with me.” He rushed past them forcing the two men to run to keep up. “Had a meeting this morning with the damn politicians. They want something done fast on the Lisa Cambridge homicide.” He flicked away his cigarette butt. “They don’t care who we arrest just so long as the residents feel the streets are safe. Damn elections.”
“You don’t have any suspects though, right?” Marty aimed his empty coffee cup toward a fifty-gallon drum. It bounced on the lip and dropped into the can.
They could see the cluster of techs two hundred yards down the road. “Best we can tell,” Padre started, “is the motorcycle was hit by another vehicle, driver probably drunk, swerved over the center lane. Maybe both drivers were drunk. The driver of the other vehicle didn’t even brake. No skid marks, no witnesses. Have to warn you. This ain’t a pretty site.”
They stopped short of the accident area. This stretch of the woods had pockets which had been carved out to create rest areas with picnic tables close to the road and a pavilion back toward the woods near a portable washroom. The motorcycle was just beyond this open area lying at the base of a large oak tree in a smoldering twist of metal and melted plastic. The driver had been thrown on impact landing fifty feet beyond the wreckage.
A woman with a tight wad of gray curls moved toward the men. Gretchen, the assistant medical examiner for Cedar Point, was a petite, portly figure stuffed into a dark green one-piece coverall, like a toxic waste disposal suit. A pear with legs.
“This your case, Padre?” Gretchen asked.
“Not unless you tell me it’s a homicide.” Padre introduced Marty and Sherlock to the M.E. She smiled at the mention of Sherlock’s name. “They are on a fact-finding mission from Indianapolis.” Padre didn’t elaborate.
“Should be easy finding this hit-and-run driver.” Gretchen stuck an arm in the direction of the crumpled body. “Just look for a car or more likely a semi with this guy’s head as a hood ornament.”
“Wonderful.” Padre looked at the two men. “Satisfied?”
Sherlock chewed on the inside of his bottom lip, dragged his gaze from the splayed body to the road behind. He slowly started moving back down the road.
“Hey,” Marty called out. With a shrug toward Padre, he said, “Just give us a few minutes.”
Marty caught up with Sherlock as Padre trailed behind. Sherlock stayed on the right side of the road, his eyes tracking the trail of blood on the left. “Makes sense,” Marty said. “Semi hits the guy back there, carries his head on his grill for a hundred feet.”
Padre turned and looked back down the road toward the wreckage. “Could have hit him from behind, though. Pushed the bike into the pole and carried the head the rest of the way.”
“But there isn’t a second set of tire tracks,” Sherlock pointed out. “None anywhere. And that ground is soft. There should be something.” Sherlock squinted at the bright light filtering between the leaves and continued walking, stopping suddenly.
“This is where the blood stopped,” Padre pointed out. The trail of blood ended at the pavement directly across from them.
The men looked further down the road on the soft shoulder. No skid marks, tire tracks or ruts to indicate anyone went off the road.
“There is another scenario,” Padre said rubbing the back of his neck. “The motorcycle went out of control, driver lost his head…pardon the pun…and it was left in the street for the next vehicle to come by. Probably stuck to the undercarriage.” A shudder sliced through his body. He studied the professor’s furrowed brows. “Why would you try to make something out of a gruesome, freak traffic accident?”
“Because it comes so close to Friday. I’m suspicious of all deaths. Call me cautious.”
“That you are.” Padre twisted his head left to right and rubbed the back of his neck. “Damn mattress. Gotta have the wife buy a new one.” He dropped his head, twisted left and right, then tilted it back. He opened his eyes as a whisper of a breeze parted the branches overhead. A spotlight of sun danced between the leaves. Padre’s mouth gaped. “Sweet mother of God!” He made a sign of the cross.
The roar of the Harley echoed through the woods. Dagger maneuvered the black-as-sin Sport between two squad cars and brought it to rest on the shoulder. The motorcycle had been another payment for services rendered when a client didn’t have money to pay Dagger. Two things Dagger had liked abou
t it. It had batwing fairing and black ceramic-coated pipes. He no sooner turned the key, swung one long leg over the bike, and popped the side stand, then a familiar blur of platinum broke out of the crowd.
Sheila pushed the sleeves up on her red leather jacket as she rushed over. Dagger wondered how on earth she could bend over in a skirt that short. She did have great legs, he had to say that much for her. And she knew it. Modesty was not one of Sheila’s strong points.
Dagger walked toward the barricade, his eyes taking in the crowd from behind dark sunglasses. Force of habit. All Padre told him was to get over here quick. No details but Dagger had a sick feeling in his stomach. Now he had to contend with Sheila.
Dagger folded back the sleeves of his black quilted shirt and pressed forward, forcing Sheila to rush to keep up with him. He pulled his glasses down and admired her exposed legs. “You’re going to catch cold.”
Sheila smiled seductively as she pulled on his shirtsleeve. “Maybe you can keep me warm. What’s up? What are you doing here?”
“I needed to ask Padre something and he told me to stop by because his batteries were running low on his cell.” Dagger glanced at the number of cars, the cop directing traffic fifty feet away, photographers with camcorders perched on their shoulders, the M.E. wagon, Crime Tech van, a man and his two sons, and several other curiosity seekers the cops had yet to push back. Padre was waiting at the barricades for him.
“Well, Miss Monroe. Daddy sends you out now to cover hit-and-runs?” Padre’s eyes smiled but his face was as gray as the concrete road.
“What’s going on, Sergeant?” Sheila asked.
Ignoring Sheila, Padre motioned for Dagger to follow him.
“Freedom of the press, dammit!” Sheila yelled at their backs.
