by Thom Reese
“Taz, you okay?” he asked between hurried gulps of air.
Taz nodded. She’d dropped her cell phone and was hunting for it between her feet. “Your hand, how bad is it?”
“Not too bad. The reyaqc got the worst of it.”
“What now?”
“I don’t know. The reyaqc was behind us. Maybe still in the street. Maybe hiding between buildings.”
“We’ve got to find it.” Taz sat upright, her cell phone in her palm.
Shane shook his head. “No. You were right. We need a tranquilizer gun or a taser. Something. We have no way of stopping a rogue.” Shane pulled the gear lever to drive. He’d seen the thing, found it. He could do so again. Only next time he’d come prepared. He’d have a plan. A real plan. Shane took his foot off of the brake pedal, allowed the Acura to roll slowly forward.
Then stopped.
“What?” asked Taz as she scanned the street for signs of the rogue.
“We heard a scream. There must be a victim. There’s someone out there who might be dying.” Once again, Shane cursed himself for his stupidity. If he had had even the slightest forethought he would have brought a weapon. Any weapon. Something!
“The victim’s probably dead,” he rationalized.
“It’s already too late,” agreed Taz.
“It would be crazy to get out of the car after what just happened.”
“We could call the cops.”
“And tell them what?”
“No one would believe us.”
“The victim might die while we’re waiting for the police to arrive.”
“If he’s even still alive now.”
But, he might be alive. Just maybe. An outside chance. But not for long if no one did anything. Not if Shane did nothing.
Closing his eyes with a muttered curse, he took three deep breaths, summoned what little courage he had to command, and threw the door open. Stepping toward the back of the car, he scanned the darkness.
“What are you doing?” whispered Taz, as she climbed out of the car as well.
“Get back in the car,” ordered Shane. “No use both of us risking it.”
“Forget it, buddy. No, ‘Me Tarzan, you Jane’ crap.”
Shane nodded, but his mind was on the reyaqc. Where had it gone? No lights had come on at the sound of the reyaqc’s shrieks, nor at the pounding on or shattering of the windshield. This was a neighborhood accustomed to crime. Its residents knew better than to intrude where they didn’t belong. Shane turned around, suddenly frightened that the rogue may have circled back to the front of the car. He only now realized how hard he was breathing, how his chest heaved, how his breath stung the back of his throat. How close had he come to death?
How close was he still?
He scanned the darkness again.
Nothing.
But there was something. He knew that much. The reyaqc was close, hiding, waiting. Shane’s mind cleared as his adrenaline levels subsided to sub-nuclear levels. His flashlight. Yes, his flashlight. Shane moved to the trunk.
Taz came to beside him. “You come up with a hot new plan?”
Shane held up one finger, indicating that she wait as he inserted the key into the lock and quickly lifted the lid.
There it was, long and black. He lifted it triumphantly.
“A flashlight? You’re plan is a flashlight?”
Shane shrugged. It did seem ludicrous on the surface. “Hey, we need to see—right? And this thing’s long, solid, it has weight. We might be able to use it like a club, fend off the reyaqc.”
“What about a tire iron?”
Okay, the girl was thinking. Flicking the flashlight on, he gave a quick scan of his trunk. Nearly empty, just a half jug of coolant, a quart of 10W30, and a glow-in-the-dark Frisbee. “No tire iron. It’s probably in a sunken compartment with the little dummy tire. No time to dig around for that now.”
Shane stepped away from the car and pressed the lid shut as he scanned the night. Where was the reyaqc? Where was the victim? Taking a tentative three steps forward, he moved the flashlight beam slowly from left to right, attempting a logical search pattern. He tried to focus his ears on every nuance, every breath of wind, every tiny movement, but mostly what he heard was his own heart beating much faster than he believed to be healthy.
“Which side did the reyaqc first appear from?” asked Shane. He had been driving slowly. The reyaqc appeared as from nowhere. But it had to have come from somewhere.
“The right,” whispered Taz. “It came from the right.”
They were on the driver’s side of the car, so Shane marched slowly around the front of the vehicle and toward the passenger side, still scanning the darkness with the flashlight. This was Vegas, the desert. The yards were small, the landscaping sparse. Many of the homes were xeroscaped, which basically meant stones and cacti—not much watering required. In short, there weren’t many bushes and only occasional trees. The only true hiding place would be the spaces between dwellings.
But all seemed empty.
Had he been mistaken?
Perhaps the scream had not been a victim, but the rogue itself.
Shane took another three tentative steps forward. He was leery about straying too far from the relative safety of the vehicle. Though, with the windshield shattered, that safety was probably more in his mind than in reality.
Another few steps.
Nothing. No sign of a victim.
Shane realized that Taz was no longer beside him. He turned to his left, then to his right. “Taz,” he whisper-yelled. “Taz, where are you?”
“Right here. At the back of the car. There’s blood on the street. I think the rogue came this way.”
“Okay, stay there. I’m coming to you. We need to stick together.”
It was then the reyaqc struck.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Donald Baker’s eyes rolled back and then forward. He gazed over the young man’s right shoulder, but saw very little of the room. Colors seemed to condense, to collide upon themselves, and then to break apart like watercolors doused beneath a faucet, running off the page in rivers of swirling dissolution. Donald squinted, his eyes rolled again. He drew in breath as the electric tingle raced up his arm, through his shoulder, and into the torso where it then dispersed throughout his body. Adjusting his hand, he curbed the flow, measuring it, controlling it. Though his very being screamed for the stuff, he knew he must direct his need, dominate it, subdue it. He was the master over his own body. The primal side could hold no sway.
Donald’s breath was cut short as the essence burned like liquid steel in his veins. He tried to focus on the suite, on the Italian décor, the high definition TV, the picturesque view of the Las Vegas strip, but none would come into focus. “Yes, all right,” he hissed. “That should do it.”
Donald withdrew his hand, squinted, blinked, and then gazed at the young man before him. “Much better.” Another sharp intake of breath and then a weak smile. “Thank you, Ric. Are you stable?”
The young man was seated on a recliner directly in front of Donald. He blinked, shook his head, and then twisted his neck as if trying to relieve a kink. “I’m well, Dr. Baker. Only weak. A little dizzy.”
Donald reached forward, patting Ric on the kneecap. “Go. Lie down. Drink plenty of juice. I’ll remain here and allow my system to adjust.”
Ric twisted his neck again, blinked, and then rose unsteadily to his feet. “I’ll be in my bed if you need me.” The young man turned, taking slow deliberate steps toward his bedroom. He was not tall, perhaps five eight or nine. His hair was brown with just a tinge of red, and his face a symmetric oval. Ric was one of three such men who had accompanied Donald on this trip. Donald appreciated each as he would a son. How fortunate he was to have such loyal ones to tend to his needs. Donald truly didn’t know how he would survive without such as these. Certainly he wouldn’t return to what he had once been. No. Donald Baker had long since determined to die rather than to revert to his baser driv
es. He glanced down at the small patch of orange hair on the back of his left hand and then closed his eyes. No. Never again.
The sound of a door knock brought Donald Baker back to the present. He blinked, breathed deeply, and rose unsteadily to his feet. “Mmm, that burns,” he said to no one. “Such a barbaric curse we bear.”
He moved slowly across the plush carpet, easing into a fully upright position, and slipping his slightly tinted glasses onto the bridge of his nose before reaching for the door handle. “Yes. Who is it?”
* * * *
Julia knocked again. She was probably waking the guy, but was beyond caring. The things she’d learned in the past hours—the things she’d seen—well, some answers just couldn’t wait. And Julia was nearly certain that Donald Baker—whoever he was—had some of those answers, or, at the very least, knew where to find them.
There was movement now, on the opposite side of the door, and then Donald Baker’s voice. But weak, a bit shaky, asking who it was. Julia responded. She heard the latch flip with a quick schlict. The door opened slowly at first. Just a crack, a cautious peek, and then it swung open revealing Donald. Not a tall man, perhaps five foot eight, only an inch or so taller than she. He wore a navy bathrobe over silk pajamas and pale blue corduroy slippers on his too-white feet. He offered the same plastic smile as the first time they’d met. “Dr. Chambers,” he said as he waved her into his suite. “I was afraid you’d have need of me. May I offer you a drink?”
Though the man was acting pleasant enough, he seemed ill, drawn out. “No. I’m fine, thank you.”
Donald turned from her, assuming she’d follow. Julia hesitated. She didn’t know this man. At the very least his actions this morning had been peculiar, some might say suspicious. There was something odd about him, something unsettling, but Julia sensed no immediate danger. Still, entering a strange man’s suite—alone. Not exactly brilliant. She wished she’d thought to ask Raul Martinez, the intern, to accompany her. But she hadn’t. She’d come alone. She’d come on a mission and would learn nothing if she turned and fled like a frightened teenager. Julia slipped her right hand into her purse, palmed the small can of mace, crossed the threshold, and closed the door. She followed Donald—who either hadn’t noticed or had ignored her hesitation—into the expansive sunken living room. He pivoted, seemed to think for a moment, then said, “You’ve been doing research, I presume.”
Julia eyed Donald. His movements seemed forced, almost as if he contemplated every action, every gesture, before performing each maneuver. Julia strolled past him and seated herself on the slick golden-colored sectional sofa. She’d never been to a suite before. It was definitely sweet. “Yes,” she said to Donald. “Research.” That was an understatement. What she had seen…
Donald lowered himself into the matching recliner before her. “You found other cases, one’s similar to that of James Harrison.”
Julia nodded. “There have been at least three related attacks; two of these were fatalities. I was able to see the coroner’s reports, along with photographs of the bodies. They were horrible, withered. Dr. Baker, what is going on here?”
Donald Baker’s expression remained neutral. He gazed at her through tinted glasses. Was he wearing contact lenses as well? Strange. “Are you sure you don’t wish a drink, Dr. Chambers? It seems we have much to discuss.”
“Call me Julia. We’re not at the hospital now.” As well, it wouldn’t hurt to be cordial. The man seemed stiff, a bit ill-at-ease. She wouldn’t get the information she needed if they plodded about calling each other Doctor.
Donald nodded once again. “Julia, then. Very good.” He held up one finger signaling her to wait, and then called out, “Bradley! Bradley, would you get Dr. Chambers a drink, please. Perhaps a bordeaux.”
A young man appeared almost instantly from an adjoining chamber. He was rather slight, light of skin, with an oval face similar to Donald’s and a wire-like mop of hair nearly identical to the man’s. A son perhaps. “I’ll bring it right away, Dr. Baker.” Okay, referring to Donald by title. Perhaps not a son, unless Baker was an extremely militant father—which didn’t seem entirely out of the question based on Julia’s first encounter with the man. She wondered where the young man and woman who had accompanied him to the hospital were. Donald had ordered them around mercilessly.
Donald turned back in her direction, offered another grin. She noticed Donald’s right hand trembled slightly as he draped it over his left; he seemed extremely drawn out, nothing like he had just this morning. “Donald, are you all right? You look ill.”
He waved it off. “It’s nothing. I’ve just received a treatment. Now, Julia, tell me about the other victims. How did you connect these to Mr. Harrison’s attack?”
The young man, Bradley, brought her a deep red wine. She allowed her can of mace to slip back into the purse, accepted the glass, and then, without tasting the beverage, placed it on the rectangular marble coffee table situated between them. “There were numerous similarities. The pallor of the skin, the sunken features, dehydration. Also, in each case, there was a bed of small pinprick-like punctures in the skin. Jimmy had the same.”
“Yes he did,” agreed Donald, but he offered no further comment.
Again, something irritated her, something about his facial expressions or lack of. It almost seemed she was conversing with a mannequin. This man was not what he seemed. Regardless his idiosyncrasies, it was time she learned something about the problem at hand. Julia leveled her gaze at Donald and leaned forward, elbows resting on her upper thighs. A casual yet authoritative posture. “Donald, obviously you know something. I’m guessing you came to Las Vegas specifically to investigate these cases. Tell me what’s happening.”
There was that smile again, that same manufactured grin that so unnerved her. “Well, you see, I’m not sure I can entrust that information to you just yet.” His voice was soft yet commanding, a voice accustomed to giving orders.
“Okay, listen.” Julia could be commanding as well. She hadn’t come down here just to get the runaround from this pompous creep. “Crimes have been committed. You obviously know something about this. I’m a doctor. I need to understand what’s happening to these patients—in particular Jimmy Harrison, who is my personal responsibility.”
Donald nodded, this time forgoing the smile. “There are some things best kept from the general public. Surely, you understand this.”
Julia’s stomach took a dip and a twist. Was this guy with the government? Was this some sort of terrorist scenario? “Are you talking about a bio-weapon?”
Donald shook his head, his expression blank, emotionless. “Nothing like that. No conspiracy, no intrigue.”
“Then what? I’ve got a patient to treat. Obviously, whatever this is has lethal potential.”
Donald stared at her for a long moment. He didn’t seem to be scrutinizing her. Julia wasn’t even sure that he was contemplating a response. He just simply stared. The guy gave her the creeps. She wanted to break his gaze, to flee from the room, but she calmed herself, controlled her breathing. He’d done nothing the least bit threatening; he’d simply been…odd. When finally he spoke, it was as if there’d been no pause at all, as if she’d just posed her question less than a second before. “Again,” he said. “I’m not yet comfortable speaking of this. Though, I would be more than happy to assist you in developing a treatment plan. This I can do.”
Julia narrowed her gaze. Forget about his idiosyncrasies, about her momentary ill-ease; take charge the way she’d planned to from the beginning. This was her parade, and she’d lead it where she meant it to go. “You’re not a medical doctor, Donald. At least that’s what you’ve led me to believe.” Her tone was crisp, nearly accusatory.
“No, my doctorates lie in other disciplines.”
“Then I’m not interested in your treatment suggestions—Doctor. I am, though, quite interested in what you know, what connection you have to these attacks—especially anything relating to my patient.”
“Once again, nothing. I need details. I need facts. You are somehow connected. Talk with me or I’ll have Gil Grissom, Dirty Harry, Inspector Clouseau, and every cop in Vegas pounding down this door. Your choice.”
Expressionless, Donald Baker was a hard man to read. There was no outward appearance of anger, no downturn of the lips, no furrowed brow, no reddened flesh. His voice was as it always had been: even, unemotional, authoritative. “I have one stipulation.”
“And that is?”
“That you not question my sanity; that you not try to disprove my account until after I’ve completed my explanation. At which time, I will cease to concern myself with your opinion.”
Julia blinked. What an oddball. “So, you’re not going to swear me to secrecy, force me to take a blood oath?”
Donald remained emotionless, either not sensing or not caring about her sarcasm. “I wouldn’t trust such a promise made in advance of this revelation. We’ll save the oaths for later.” He paused, but only for a moment, and then leaned forward in his seat. She could smell his cologne, something musky and nearly overpowering. This close, she could see that his skin was smooth, much smoother than she would have expected for a man his age, which she took to be mid to late forties. It seemed almost glossy, rubbery. Like a seal’s skin might appear if it were a pale gray or peach rather than midnight black.
“Tell me,” he said. “Have you ever heard of the reyaqc?”
“The what?”
“Reyaqc. Some claim the word to have Greek origins, others Scandinavian. There is also a theory that it springs from the Hebrew word reyqam, which means empty or void. The subtext is appropriate, I suppose. The reyaqc are sometimes referred to as The Empty, which is perhaps apt.”
Julia waited for him to continue, and when he did not, she prompted him saying, “Your point is what?”
“This naked man of yours, the one who attacked James Harrison; he is a reyaqc.”
