The Empty

by Thom Reese

  “Where does that leave me?”

  “You, once again, dear Julia, are a conundrum. I see that you now believe the reyaqc to be real. But you don’t trust me. As I see it, this leaves us two options. One, we again drug you and leave you in the care of my young friends. Or two, you accompany me to a reyaqc settlement, where you can do no harm, and where, with luck, you’ll grow to appreciate our dilemma.” He paused for just a moment, and then added, “I see something in you. I’m not sure what it is just yet. Perhaps a longing, or a seeking of purpose. Give me an opportunity to show you something wondrous, and perhaps we can help each other in our quests.”

  Julia was incensed. “How could you possibly think you see something in me? You don’t know me. You know nothing about me.”

  The grin returned, that emotionless, artificial contour of his lips. “Julia,” he said in as near to a sincere tone as she’d yet heard. “I may not be of your species, but I am a diligent student of the human race. I know you far better than Jane Goodall knows her chimpanzees, far more intimately than Pavlov knew his dog. You are experiencing a chaotic marital rift; that much is clear from simple phone messages. Therefore, you are in a transitional period, a state of unease and confusion. Aside from the estranged husband, the only calls you’ve received have been from colleagues. No friends, no family, even though you’ve suddenly dropped from sight during an admittedly stressful period in your life. You came here alone, having confided in no one as to your suspicions. Julia, clearly you are alone in the world. In many ways, perhaps it is you who are empty.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Charles Chambers had drilled Dr. Raul Martinez concerning Julia’s whereabouts. He’d made some other calls, tried to locate her through friends and colleagues—even through the police. Now, he took a more direct action.

  “Venetian Hotel and Casino. My name is Juanita. How may I help you?”

  “Yes. I’m calling for a guest, a Donald Baker. I’d like to be connected to his room.”

  “Thank you, sir. Just a moment.” There was a brief pause, and then the operator returned to the line. “I’m connecting you now, sir.”

  Well, that was good, at least. The man did exist, and, as Martinez had stated, did have a room at this hotel. Charles heard three short clicks, and then the phone rang. It was answered after only two of these. “Hello.” The voice was that of a young male.

  “May I speak with Donald Baker, please?”

  “Who may I say is calling?”

  Charles had thought about this question. If he gave his true last name, Baker might too easily connect him with Julia. “This is Charles Douglas,” he said, substituting his middle name in place of his surname. “Is Donald Baker available?” This man sounded young. Raul Martinez’s impression, based on his conversation with Julia, was that Baker was a more mature man. Charles was fairly well certain that this wasn’t he.

  “May I ask the purpose of your call?”

  “Yes, I’m an attorney with Dahl, Chambers, and Levin. I have some papers for Mr. Baker to sign.”

  “Doctor Baker is not available right now,” said the young man with a bit of a snit. “I suggest you call back at a later time.”

  “Sure. But, listen. This has to do with a certain patient that fled UMC. Doctor Baker asked me to do some work on this situation. I’m sure he’d like for me to reach him as soon as possible.”

  There was a long pause. Charles hoped he hadn’t over-played his ruse by claiming to have been hired by Baker. He hoped the reference to the wanted man might gain him some sort of ground. He ached to simply ask if Julia was there—if she’d been kidnapped, or worse—but feared that might just earn him a dial tone in the ear.

  Finally, the young man responded. “Dr. Baker hired you?”

  “Yes,” lied Charles.

  “Are you a reyaqc?” asked the young man in a nearly inaudible voice.

  Reyaqc? Charles had never heard the term. “Yes,” he said almost immediately. “I’m a reyaqc.”

  Another pause, but shorter this time. “Dr. Baker left about fifteen minutes ago. I don’t expect him back for several hours, perhaps not even until tomorrow.”

  Charles was out of his seat now, pacing one way and then the other before his mahogany desk. “Where did he go? Is there a way for me to reach him? The information I have is important.”

  “He’s gone to meet with Tresset Bremu. He’ll be out of reach.”

  Charles cursed silently, but kept his voice calm, even. “Okay,” he said through a sigh. “Oh, one other thing,” he added almost as an afterthought. “Was the ER doctor with him? The lady, Julia something?”

  “Yes, Mr. Douglas. She was taken as well.”

  “Taken? Is she all right? Has anything happened to her?”

  Charles had dropped the ruse at this point. The click followed by the lifeless dial tone only confirmed this conclusion.

  PART THREE – THE PACK – CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Tresset Bremu stood, brush in hand, glaring at the incomplete painting. Something wasn’t right. Perhaps the hue. He normally liked deep blue tones, which created moody shadows and rich soulful skies. But this particular work cried for something else, something striking, aggressive. Perhaps more red tones. A sense of heat, of danger, of blood and death.

  Tresset exhaled, stepping back from the canvas, seeking a broader perspective. There was a dirt road, bordered by random foliage and stone, snaking its way toward the rising sun. Two reyaqc, silhouettes only, but strong of form and stature, were two thirds of the way up the path, their shadows long, their postures purposeful and true. Hidden behind a large stone were several humans, withered in their frailty, dressed in cumbersome business attire and clutching automatic weapons. Their eyes were wide with terror and their foreheads damp with perspiration. Behind them, in the lower right corner of the work, were numerous reyaqc, caged behind a fence made up of miniature high-rise buildings and automobiles, trains and factories. These reyaqc, molts all, wept and clawed, but could gain no liberty.

  Tresset narrowed his lips, cocked his head slightly, and daubed his brush on his palette. More reds. Definitely more reds. And oranges. The sun should appear as a blazing fireball on the verge of nova, prepared to enflame a fallen world.

  The reyaqc chieftain dropped his head and placed the palette and brush aside. Too obvious. Everything he’d painted recently had been brash, without subtlety, devoid of mystery and beauty. A pup could read his meaning with little coaxing. Moving to a nearby basin, Tresset dipped his narrow hands in pale yellow water. Using a harsh industrial soap, he washed, scrubbing each hand and forearm up to the elbow as might a surgeon. He scoured between fingers, under the nails, on the dark pads that served as his palms, and within each crevasse of his thick rubbery skin. Afterwards he dried each with a clean towel, and then rubbed his hands with a cloth dampened with a strong disinfectant.

  Keeping the damp cloth, he then strolled to the opposite wall of the tiny office and stared at a large map of the region posted there. The map, yellowed and dog-eared by exposure to the elements, pinpointed each of the North American desert reyaqc packs, their chieftain’s name, and their approximate number. Much of Nevada and some small areas of both California and Arizona were among the few remaining places with sufficient undeveloped land for reyaqc packs to settle. But even these areas were shrinking and soon, Tresset feared, would be gone altogether. Tresset stared at a spot roughly twenty-five miles to the northwest of his own pack. Bytneht Noavor. Tresset had heard nothing since he’d slain the upstart’s whimpering spy. This troubled him. Noavor would not accept the insult. Without doubt, the smarmy pup would retaliate. But, why no activity? Tresset’s spies had observed nothing unusual within the settlement, no hushed comings and goings, no furtive meetings with his leadership. Noavor was known to be rash, vengeful. Tresset had assumed—in fact, hoped—this insult would spawn a hurried, ill-conceived attack upon his own compound. Tresset’s finely-hewn forces would easily subdue those of his opponent, Noavor would be sla
in, Tresset would assume command of both packs, merging them and creating a more formidable force.

  Why had Noavor failed to respond? Was he too cowardly to face Tresset, to risk his molts against a superior force? A low rumbling growl emerged from Tresset’s naked throat. Something was not right. His spies must’ve missed something. Noavor may be a shortsighted fool, not realizing the danger now faced by the reyaqc species, and the need to unite, but he was no coward. Strategy was a puzzle and Tresset was missing a piece.

  He detested missing pieces.

  Tresset’s nose twitched. There was a scent upon the too-hot breeze. Ordool, the yellow bat, approaching the office. “Enter,” barked Tresset before the other could knock. “Tell me something useful.”

  The brightly-colored molt crossed the threshold, allowing a hot burst of wind to surge into the room through the open door. “There is a vehicle approaching, still some twenty miles distant,” offered Ordool. “One reyaqc, two humans.”

  “One reyaqc?”

  “Yes, Chieftain. He’s been identified as Donald Baker.”

  Tresset whirled to face his subordinate. “That is not his name!” barked the angered molt. “He is a reyaqc—despite all he’s done, or what he now chooses to call himself. You will refer to him with a name worthy of his true nature.” Tresset’s glare was intense. Ordool shrank at the outburst, his leather-draped arms coming together before his breast, one narrow hand covering the other in a nervous gesture.

  “Come, Ordool. Sit.” Tresset’s tone was suddenly gentle, reassuring. Ordool could be fragile. Best to soothe, not to anger. “When should I expect him?”

  The yellow bat took a tentative step closer, his shoulders hunched forward, his eyes averting those of his chieftain as his ears twitched right then left. “Given the terrain, Dolnaraq should arrive within three-quarters of an hour, sir.”

  “Dolnaraq,” whispered Tresset as he clenched his disinfectant cloth. “Dolnaraq.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Charles Chambers blinked his eyes back into focus as he massaged his throbbing forehead. It seemed he’d been staring at the computer screen for hours. He’d called a friend at the police department, Hal Holmberg, a buddy from his police academy days. Charles had attended the academy before he rerouted his law enforcement dreams toward the litigation side of the equation. His original thought had been to become a prosecutor, putting away the scumbags guys like Hal brought in. That had lasted only until his mortgage went past due a couple of times. Then, Charles had done some moonlighting during tax season with one of his law school pals, and well, the money was too good and Charles’ altruistic calling too faint.

  He voiced his concerns to Hal that this Donald Baker may have taken Julia against her will. But his old buddy said they couldn’t do anything just yet. Julia was a grown woman. Charles was an estranged spouse. She wouldn’t be expected to keep him apprised of her every move. In fact, by Charles’ own admission, she’d been avoiding him, not returning his calls. And there’d been the text message to both Charles and to her employer indicating she’d be out of town with family for a few days. Maybe she’d just needed some space, time to think things through. She was under considerable stress, after all.

  Charles ended the call unconvinced. Julia was with this Baker, and the whole situation seemed squirrelly. He’d tried finding information about Donald Baker online, but the name was too common. Without knowing more about the man, Charles didn’t know whether to investigate Baker the plumber, Baker the surgeon, Baker the college professor, Baker the baker, or any other of the dozens of Donald Bakers. The Donald Baker he was looking for did have the title “doctor,” but even with this tidbit, it could take days to locate the right man. This Baker was staying at a hotel. That meant he wasn’t a Las Vegas resident. He could be from anywhere. Thus, Charles had no starting point.

  After continued frustration and three cans of Monster Energy Drink, he switched his focus to the term reyaqc. The young man in Baker’s hotel room had asked Charles if he was a reyaqc. What could that mean, and did it have any significance here? Charles wasn’t sure how to spell it: rayick, reyack, reyak? He tried every imaginable variation, and was just about to give up when he came across something under the unlikely spelling, reyaqc. “An obscure mythical creature,” sited the online dictionary. “In European folklore, the reyaqc is human-like in appearance, but with the ability to infuse animal traits directly from beasts. Reyaqc are said to have no true form of their own and so steal genetic material from their victims. Some claim the legends of vampires and werewolves have their origins in the reyaqc.”

  “Monsters,” muttered Charles through an ironic snort. “They’re talking about monsters.” He couldn’t believe the amount of time he’d wasted on this folly. What frustrated him worse was that he had no other lead to follow. In his gut, he knew Julia was in danger. The woman was too dedicated to her job to disappear with nothing more than an obscure text message to the hospital. Charles had checked. Her superiors had heard nothing more from her. Something was very wrong here, and it seemed Charles was the only one determined to get to the bottom of it.

  Grunting at the sheer stupidity of it all, he clicked into a second website dealing with reyaqc. This one featured a chat room where nerds gathered to discuss so-called “sightings.” There were a few poor-quality photographs of supposed reyaqcs, some eyewitness testimonials and links to several other reyaqc-related sites. The whole thing smacked of Bigfoot. Charles clicked a link, which led him to another site and then another. He scanned several articles, getting a feel for the myth of the reyaqc, but felt this was getting him nowhere. How would any of this lead him to Julia?

  Just when he was about to give up, he came across a chat thread titled, “Rogue reyaqc in Vegas.” Charles clicked into the chat room and scanned through the comments. According to these reyaqc website “experts,” a rogue reyaqc had been responsible for a series of bizarre murders committed over the past week. Charles had heard about the murders, of course. That type of thing was front page news. It was nearly impossible to tune into local talk radio without encountering the topic. But, no one thought it was some crazy mythical monster.

  It dawned on Charles that this killer, this so-called reyaqc, could be the patient Raul Martinez referred to, the one who attacked Jimmy Harrison before fleeing the hospital. This could be the connection he’d been seeking. But even so, he didn’t believe in monsters. This same guy might be the killer and the patient, but Charles couldn’t accept that he was something other than human. And besides, none of this got him any closer to finding Julia—and that was his only true objective.

  Charles was just about to give up and exit the site, when someone added another post to the thread. “I heard Donald Baker flew to Vegas to find the rogue,” is what it said.

  Charles’ heart tapped out a staccato rhythm. Baker!

  Charles was not adept at chat room etiquette or form. He’d never entered one in his life, but here was his connection. This had to be the Baker he was looking for. This was the man who’d taken Julia. Searching around the page, he found an icon that, when highlighted, read “Reply.” He clicked on this and found that he needed to create a screen name in order to continue. After a moment’s contemplation, he typed the word “Searching” in the space provided, selected a password, confirmed the password, and was then rewarded with an empty message box in which to type. Quickly, he posed the question, “Who is Donald Baker?” and then clicked, “Post.”

  There was a slight pause, and then several responses hit the screen almost simultaneously.

  MO—Dude, you’re kidding—right?

  REYATTACK—LOL!!!

  ZOOT—Who is this moron?

  Charles sighed. Apparently this Baker was some sort of celebrity to these reyaqc geeks. “Sorry,” he typed. “I’ve just recently learned of the reyaqc and find the concept fascinating. I’m trying to learn as much as I can.” He posted the message, hoping his feigned novice curiosity would draw these people out.


  There was another slight pause and then responses poured in.

  TOGA—Donald Baker is the foremost expert on the reyaqc. He’s a Harvard University professor who has written their history.

  MO—Welcome newbie to our little band of reyaphites! Donald Baker is a famous reyaqc whose goal is to civilize the species and bring them into mainstream society.

  REYATTACK—Actually, it’s Yale, not Harvard.

  ZOOT—Donald Baker is not a reyaqc! He’s a human sympathizer.

  REYBOY—Donald Baker, along with other well-established reyaqc, work together to help both individual reyaqcs and even full packs to become educated, secure employment within human society, purchase land, etc.

  DIGIT—Donald Baker is a wealthy reyaqc who wrote a book called “Histories” which tells the story of the reyaqc.

  MOLTY—You’re both wrong, it’s Princeton.

  REYBOY—Histories is not a book! It’s a series of three volumes.

  REYATTACK—The college professor is just a front for the real Baker. The true author of histories is a molt who cannot be seen in public. FYI—a molt is a reyaqc who infuses stem cells from animals.

  TOGA—Harvard!

  DIGIT—Baker is not a molt. He detests molts.

  MO—I heard he’s working on volume 4.