The city’s forefathers built River Street to accommodate a once booming cotton trade. In the 1880's the Cotton Exchange was the very center of the city’s livelihood, earning Savannah the name “Wall Street of the South,” but in 1916 the exchange closed, ending a thirty-year reign of power. As the world changed so did Savannah, diversifying its shipping industries to oblige additional wares. In the wake of the expansion, River Street was left behind. The Cotton Exchange and its adjacent buildings were forced to diversify also, now holding host to eateries and bars, serving thousands of tourists and partygoers each year.
One block from River Street on Bay, the sidewalks and crosswalks were teeming with people as the daily ritual of the evening commute began. The Chase Building, an eight-story structure of sturdy brick, built in the early eighteen hundreds when cotton was king, spat out people in droves. Most of the workers were cheerful, another workday behind them; others dreaded the long drive to Hilton Head or the surrounding counties, only to return in the morning for another day of drudgery.
Inside, the lobby was filled to capacity as elevators delivered each new group of workers within seconds of the last, all moving quickly toward the revolving doors at the front of the building. One deliberately held the elevator door and let the others pass. Thomas Silverman surveyed the entire lobby before exiting the lift. He clasped a worn briefcase to his breast, as though afraid someone would him mug right outside the door.
For the past seven years Thomas Silverman lived in fear. Not only from the government—although they were at the top of the list—but from the project escapees as well. Somehow, someway the creatures learned of the text’s role in their creation and for reasons he did not understand wanted desperately to possess it. Even if it ended up in their hands, they wouldn’t have a clue how to use the formulas. And from his studies there was no way to reverse the process, so why was it such a driving force for them? He puzzled over the questions as he stepped from the elevator, but still they eluded him.
When he first escaped with the text, Thomas called on an old friend, Robert Foreman. Bob was an ex-hippie and revolutionary who appreciated Tom’s intestinal fortitude for liberating the book from the evil clutches of the “establishment.” He welcomed Thomas into his home and even got him a job in the town where he lived. Thomas began his study of the text and all seemed well, but he arrived home one day and found Bob’s badly mutilated body. When he inspected the wounds more closely, his fears were confirmed—the creatures were on his trail. It appeared as though Bob was tortured before he died and yet did not give him away. Thomas was devastated. Had he not brought Bob into his problem, he would still be alive. He never contacted anyone he knew again.
After Bob’s murder Thomas was constantly on the move, eight months here, another six there; the amount of time between moves shortened as the creatures became better at tracking him and he better at detecting their presence. Four months had passed since his move to Savannah. Almost time to move on.
To his fellow workers at the Chase Group, Thomas was known as John Edwards from Seattle. Laboring in the accounting department, he rarely spoke to anyone and then only briefly. Most people believed he was still mourning the loss of his wife and had moved to the city to get a fresh start. His expertise with computers had provided him with the identity and credentials of Mr. Edwards, who had died of cancer three years earlier.
He took short measured steps as he walked, glancing into the face of everyone he passed, looking for any sign of malicious intent, anyone who might be one of them. He reached the front doors without incident and passed through to the street.
The sidewalk was crowded, the traffic heavy, making it harder to spot someone tailing him. He turned right beyond the doors and started toward his car three blocks away.
Rick Ziegler stood motionless against the surging masses, a lone sentry, keeping watch in the chaos that was rush hour. His eyes never deviated from the entrance to the Chase Building. A group of workers rushed out of the building dispersing quickly into the crowds. None of them interested him. He had been watching the building for half an hour and was about to look elsewhere, when his target suddenly appeared.
“Silverman,” he said gleefully, rubbing his hands together.
Rick decided to stay put for the moment and let Silverman distance himself from the crowds. It would be easier to take him down the street where there was less traffic.
He continued to watch the professor, trying to imagine the sweet cacophony of his screams as his arms were ripped from his body. Or perhaps the quiet gasp he would emit as Rick’s fangs closed around his throat, oh, so personal. A shiver ran down Rick’s spine, not one of fear, not from any sudden change in temperature, but from the orgasmic rush he got when he was close to a kill. Like a junkie on his body’s last reserves of a drug, he was dying for a fix. And right now, at this moment, Silverman was his drug of choice.
Thomas breathed a sigh of relief as he fished in his pockets for his keys; he had made it through another day without being discovered.
Suddenly, he sensed something—a presence. He felt cold, as though an icy breeze had swept over him.
Thomas stopped and carefully surveyed the crowd, searching for the source of his unease. As his gaze swept across the street, he saw him. A tall, thin man, with sandy blonde hair and a dirty, sinister face. During his inspection of the man, he glanced into his eyes, the eyes, evil, death.
The man showed a toothy grin with abnormally large canines, then started toward him.
Thomas tore his gaze away and frantically searched for an escape route. Where, where? The alley, yes the alley. He ducked around a group of pedestrians and bolted for the passage.
Seeing the prey flee only excited Rick. He wanted urgently to give in to his primal urges, changing form right there and give chase. Were it not for the hundreds of witnesses he would have. Instead, he started across the street at a good clip, moving through the oncoming traffic with speed and grace. Halfway across the ‘walk’ sign flashed and a swarm of people surged from the opposite curb, slowing his progress. He pushed and shoved his way to the other side, drawing curses from the recipients, and reached the doors moments after Silverman ran off.
Rick caught the professor’s scent just outside the entrance to the Chase Building. The trail Silverman left would have allowed a leisurely hunt, but the close proximity of the prey and the strong smell of fear caused a bloodlust to arise in him. He rushed down the sidewalk to the alley entrance, fully expecting to find Silverman halfway down the passage running at top speed. To his surprise, the professor was standing just inside the alley, text in hand. This unexpected discovery brought Rick to a sudden halt.
Looking up from the text, Silverman held his hand out threateningly, “Stop right there,” he ordered.
“What’re you gonna do with that?” Rick asked, an eerie cackle intermingling with his words.
The weird way he spoke and laughed at the say time sent a chill through Silverman. His already shaking hands now looked palsied. The man was clearly enjoying the chase. Tom began to think that confronting this lunatic was not wise, but what choice did he have?
Trying to seem confident, he said, “Whatever I have to.”
“Well, I want to kill you, but Serena says take you alive; says we need you.”
The man broke into a fit of laughter, although it sounded as though he were calling together a pack of Hyenas. This is one of the subjects from the project, one of them. Oh my God, Silverman thought.
Inner light glowed in the man’s maddened eyes like some hellish flame had suddenly been stoked to life inside of him. His face jutted forward with a wet snap and black leprous spots appeared on his neck and cheeks. The toothy grin rapidly became a feral snout with long hooked fangs that oozed saliva.
“Oh yeah! Here we go, baby!” The man cried loudly in ecstasy, as Silverman watched in horror.
Rick held up a hand to show the professor the thick talons that had sprung from his fingers, and said in a deep guttur
al voice, “Got to kill you now. Nature of the beast. Tell Serena you had an accident.”
As he finished his statement, the man-thing leapt at Silverman.
Holding a hand up as though to ward off the attack, Silverman uttered something indecipherable. A bright flash filled the alley and he was gone.
The creature hit the pavement where its prey had stood only a moment before and looked about, perplexed. It tested the air with its newly grown muzzle.
Nothing.
The trail ended here.
Frustrated by the escape of its prey, the beast howled in rage. It swiped a nearby trashcan, taking a sizeable chunk out of the receptacle. Then vented its anger on a larger Dumpster.
After spending its fury, the thing changed back to Rick Ziegler. Still fuming, he turned back toward the busy street. Serena wasn’t going to like his report—not at all.
Out on the sidewalk again, he turned into the parking garage of the Chase Building.
Linda was tired. Charles had come into her office at five o’clock and told her he needed the Stokes proposal in the morning. It was now ten. Having finished at 9:30, Linda had stayed to add a few special touches to the brief.
Waiting at the elevator, she thought about the look on Charles’ face when the investors read that it was Linda who was responsible for putting the proposal together. I’ll have to remember my camera, she thought. A bell indicating the elevator’s arrival brought Linda back from her thoughts. The doors rolled open and she stepped inside, then pressed the button for the parking garage.
Moments later the doors opened once more, revealing the garage. At the late hour the place was deserted, with the ruddy light and towering columns it seemed more like a huge mausoleum than a parking center. The repugnant smell of oil and burnt rubber caused Linda to crinkle up her nose.
It was deathly quiet, which made Linda a trifle hesitant. She always hated being the last to leave, especially since the murders had begun, the last one only a block away.
Her car was parked at the other end of the level, part of the hierarchy of the corporate world was the closeness of one’s parking space. Linda’s was number Forty-three. She glanced at the nearest column, marked with a large number one, a part of her daily ritual before continuing on. “One day you will be mine,” she said to the stone.
Linda walked slowly, her feet hurt from wearing high heels all day. After a few moments she glanced up at the columns again. Number thirteen. She walked on. To her right, there came a faint clicking on the concrete. She stopped and peered into the shadows, nothing. With a shrug, she continued toward her car.
Still walking, she looked again to the columns, row twenty-five. Clicking again, this time behind her and accompanied with what sounded like a growl. Linda quickened her pace, not stopping to look for the source, row twenty-nine. Why is this taking so long, she wondered? Another growl, back to the right, and closer. Row thirty-three, she could see her car plainly now and moved even faster. She fumbled with her keys, trying to find the one that unlocked the door.
Growling, directly to her front. Linda froze ten feet from her space, at row Forty-two. She saw a shadowy figure through the window of her car, then a huge head poked out from behind the rear bumper. She gazed into the golden eyes, it returned her look and let out a tremendous roar.
Linda turned back toward the way she came and ran. However, before she got five steps a crushing force hit her from behind. She felt burning pain in her right shoulder and smelled something like rancid meat. She pitched forward and fell face first onto the concrete. She managed to turn over, and look right into the huge mouth, before it closed out the light.
Silverman kept to the shadows of the alley, not that it would make any difference, but it made him feel a little safer. When he reached a rusty and burnt out doorway, he stopped. From his pocket he withdrew a worn skeleton key, feeling with his free hand to find the keyhole. With a loud click the lock disengaged. He pulled the door open, its antique hinges groaning with the effort.
Inside, a set of steps led down into darkness. He negotiated them with practiced ease. At the bottom of the stairs, a thick steel door barred entrance to the chamber beyond, the shiny new metal seemed out of place among the rest of the dilapidated material. Silverman felt along the wall until he found a small niche, pressing a finger inside, he released the locking mechanism. The door popped open a half inch and he went inside.
The room was completely refurbished, he had paid top dollar for the improvements. There were no windows, for security reasons he had them bricked over. The walls were bare and the only furniture was a large oak desk, an office chair, and a single bed. He took most of his meals at a diner around the corner; therefore he didn’t need any cooking utensils. Behind the desk was a door leading to a small bathroom.
He quickly moved around the desk and sat. From his briefcase, he withdrew the text and placed it upon the bare blotter on the desk. Since his brush with the psychopath that afternoon, he had been overcome with the need to continue his studies. It was pure luck that the teleport spell had worked, though he was proud of himself for pulling it off. If he hadn’t come across it in his earlier studies, he probably would be dead right now.
The spell had transported him directly over the seat of his car, a few inches above the leatherette upholstery. If he had been less familiar with the vehicle, he probably would have reappeared with his head sitting on the roof and his body inside.
He opened the text and turned to the book of Corneille, the Celtic forest god. The incantation used to create the malevolent beasts was a direct plea to the evil Deity, fittingly called Corneille’s Gift. He had to find a way of hurting or destroying the monsters. Halfway down the yellowed page, he found a listing of weaknesses; Silver, that he knew, oak arrows blessed by an Arch Druid, no chance of that, and magical fire, yes.
Silverman had studied the elemental spells thoroughly when he first came into possession of the book, fire in particular. If and when he was accosted again, he would be ready.
Marla arrived at the Chase Building at one o’clock in the morning. It was a madhouse. She parked her car just beyond the police barricade and switched off the engine, then sat a moment taking in the scene before her.
Several local television station vans were positioned along the street. She could see the reporters going over their notes or fixing their makeup as they prepared to take the breaking story live to the studio. In this world of mass media, every reporter wanted to be the first on the scene, not to alert the public of matters that affected their community, but to give their ratings a boost and possibly win themselves an anchor position, furthering their careers.
Along with the press were the usual thrill seekers and rubber neckers. People looking for some excitement to fill the void in their mundane existence or an amusing antidote to tell their friends. They never bothered to consider that it could be them lying inside a chalk outline.
Marla reluctantly left the vehicle. She moved to the barricade, flashed her badge and was about to enter when Chelsey Warner, a local newscaster for WJCL, rushed from the crowd and shoved a microphone in her face.
“Detective Shaefer, what can you tell us about the events here at the Chase Building tonight?” Chelsey said, giving her cameraman the signal to roll tape.
Marla sighed and turned toward her. “I’ve just arrived, Miss Warner. I haven’t been briefed yet.”
Disregarding Marla’s statement, Chelsey continued, posturing for her viewers. “Is this at all linked with the recent murders plaguing our city?”
Marla felt like punching Chelsey in the face and pushing her cameraman away, but the first thing you learned in Homicide was the power of the press and the diplomacy that went along when dealing with them.
“Miss Warner, we are conducting an ongoing investigation, but are not prepared to release a statement at this time. I’m sure in the near future, when we have more evidence, we will notify the media and the public,” said Marla, giving Chelsey a standard department answer.
Before Chelsey could dissect her statement, Marla moved under the barricade tape and on to the entrance.
Damn reporters, Marla thought. Two years earlier, Marla was involved in a confrontation with Dave Garret, a reporter from the Savannah Morning News, the city’s newspaper. Garret had tailed Marla to a stakeout they were conducting on a suspect in a child murder. In his reckless ambition to get the story, Garret alerted the suspect to stakeout’s presence, ruining any chance they had for a gathering of evidence and getting a conviction. Marla said some things that were taken out of context and which Garret got printed on the front page, after putting his own unique spin on them. It took her a long time to get out from under the image Garret painted. From then on she dealt with the press with clinical detachment.
When Marla first came on board the Homicide unit she was constantly ridiculed by her coworkers. Why would a cute little ‘babe’ want to be a Homicide detective? Her good looks were a focal point for many of the jokes and gags the guys in the squad room played on her. Being blonde, with green eyes, a lovely complexion and nice figure wasn’t the norm in the unit. The only other female detective was Doris Green, who looked more like a man than some of the guys.
Marla ignored the needling of the other officers, proving her professionalism time and again. A year into her assignment, she discovered evidence previously overlooked on a case where a man had murdered his wife. It won her not only the gratitude of the community, but the admiration of her peers. Her fellow officers found out that under that gorgeous package was a cold and calculating mind. From that point on no one ever accused her of not pulling her own weight.
Dire Symbiosis Page 8
