CHIMERAS (Track Presius)

by E. E. Giorgi

  By then, I knew I was lost. I could no longer tell where the way out was. All I could see was smoke. All I could breathe was smoke. The reek blinded me.

  Around me, the flames crackled with sadistic gusto. I reached for the radio again, pressed my finger on the TUNE key and exhausted all possible frequencies. The bitch was as mute as a cod.

  I felt a spasm and coughed so hard until there was nothing more to cough and my lungs had turned inside out.

  I wanted to weep yet my eyes were as dry as sandstone. Spotlights flickered in my vision. They clustered and migrated and formed the image of two yellow eyes.

  I coiled onto myself and wailed.

  Home. Back. Home.

  CHAPTER 46

  ____________

  Casper Wilderness, April 1976

  Shhh.

  Quiet.

  The eyes won’t see you if you’re quiet.

  The eyes are smart, they can see in the dark. They can smell you, too.

  Just be quiet, and still, and you’ll be safe.

  Just be… quiet…

  The boy wheezes, sharp breaths whistling through his teeth. He closes his mouth, but his heart’s pounding too fast, small lungs starved for oxygen.

  He squats under the ferns, the rustling of leaves beneath his body sending shivers down his back. Around him, trees groan and creak. A faint moonlight quivers through the crowns.

  Not enough to see.

  The eyes can see in the dark.

  He touches his pocket, but the flashlight is no longer there. He must’ve lost it when he fell the first time. Without a flashlight he has little hope to get back to the campfire. And even if he does find the way…

  The eyes are so quiet… they can be anywhere now.

  His left foot hurts. He tries to move it, and sharp pain shoots up his leg. A whimper escapes his mouth.

  Shh! Quiet! If you’re quiet you can get out of this.

  If you’re good the eyes won’t see you.

  Slowly he slides a hand down to his leg. He feels blood, warm, burning through his skin.

  The eyes will smell it. The eyes will smell the blood and find you.

  The eyes will kill you.

  He has to move. He can’t hide for too long. Bare fingers rasp the soil beneath the leaves, trying to mix his smell with that of the earth, searching for cover, and warmth.

  Shh!

  He bites his lip to keep his teeth from chattering.

  A noise, close to his ear, like a breath.

  The eyes make no noise.

  But the eyes can be warm when they breathe on your back. They prowl silently, moving swiftly in the darkness, until they come close, so close all they need to do is pounce—

  The scream thrusts out of his lungs and cuts through his throat.

  The eyes don’t like screams.

  The eyes are angry now.

  He can see them hovering, flaring in the dark, white fangs glistening below.

  Run!

  He sprints, heart drumming in his throat, and claws pouncing behind him. Branches snap against him, scraping his legs, his wound burning, slowing him down…

  Fingers of moonlight flash on his face, making his vision falter, the trees around him like black soldiers blocking his path.

  A tree root snaps around his shoe. His feet sway in the air, the ground beneath gone, only to come back full force against his face, leaves and rocks and twigs tumbling around him.

  The eyes roar behind him, a long howl of victory over their prey.

  Everything’s spinning, the trees, the few stars through the treetops, the eyes so close now he can feel warm breath on his face, almost reassuring, until sharp claws pierce through his chest and then all he hears is his own voice breaking through the night.

  * * *

  Encino, Friday, October 24, 2008

  A scream.

  No, not a scream. A blast. Loud, deafening.

  Walls splintered, hissed, crackled. Glass shattered.

  Fangs. Sharp, against my hand.

  The cougar.

  Move, it said.

  You move, asshole.

  I didn’t want to move. It was hot, so hot I wanted to peel my skin off.

  Move.

  Cougars don’t talk.

  I couldn’t see, I couldn’t breathe, and the thing kept poking me. I touched it and it scalded me.

  A fork.

  Kitchen… I’m in the kitchen.

  A glimpse of light emerged through broken glass.

  The window—the kitchen window’s in pieces.

  The thin thread of oxygen coming through the shattered glass shook me out of my torpor.

  A dream. The cougar isn’t back. It was a dream.

  I tried to move, pain shot through my entire body. I coughed, wheezed and finally crawled, the feeble light my north star. I hit something hard. Smooth surface, cool at the top. I grabbed the rim, and pulled myself up. Through burning eyes I saw the sink, cracks of light simmering through the window above it. I opened the faucet, splashed water on my hands, arms, face, then clambered over the sink and shoved myself full weight through the broken glass.

  Falling into void never felt better.

  I had a sudden memory of rolling in the grass as a child, the scent of freshly mowed lawn, the coolness of the earth against my skin.

  In reality, cool air filling your lungs after you’ve waded through a burning house stings like hell. I rolled in the grass, rasping like an asthmatic ninety-year-old. Everything inside me stung and throbbed, every breath a sharp blade slicing through my throat. I wheezed and coughed and waited for the pain to subside.

  And then I remembered.

  Revenge. Rhesus. Diane! I sprang to my feet and ran to the front of the house. Gone. Diane’s car was gone. He’d taken her somewhere, but where? I whirled my head, searching, clinging to a last hope she’d appear from a corner, safe and unharmed. Behind me, the flames were devouring the bungalow, washing the landscape in a pool of red light. Billows of smoke rose high in the sky. The blades of an approaching helicopter swooshed in the distance.

  My eyes fell on the construction site on the adjacent lot. The timber frame delineated a two-story home with a gable roof. The walls of the lower level had been covered in house wrap. The upper level was a skeleton of vertical studs. Trusses and sheets of plywood were piled along one end of the lot.

  The air was stiff with the acrid odor of burning. The winds had picked up, feeding the fire and drumming against the plastic sheets draping the house under construction on the lot next door.

  I inhaled but to no avail. My nose burned, my throat stung.

  The lower hem of a sheet of tarp flapped in the wind. A coil of rope lay on the ground where Diane’s car had been parked. Hemp rope, the same found around Huxley’s wrists and ankles. I grabbed it and brought it to my nose. Kowalski’s sour sweat hit my nostrils like a punch in the face. He took more ropes. For Diane this time.

  The helicopter came closer.

  Waiting for help was an eternity I couldn’t afford.

  I bolted to the Dodge across the street. I slid behind the wheel, jammed the key into the engine, and then slammed my fist against the dashboard. Where the hell was I to go? Damned be the City of Angels, so vast each life is but a drop lost in an ocean of humanity. I felt mocked, desperate and defeated. Rhesus, the King of Thrace, the human chimera versus the animal one. I thought of all the Greek mythology that had enthused me growing up. Theseus killed the Minotaur. Hercules slain Nemean lion. Perseus decapitated the Medusa.

  The monster always loses, Ulysses. You’re the monster. You lose.

  No. I’m a killer like him, I can think like him. I can beat him at his own game.

  I screeched into the street and floored the gas pedal. A fire engine wailed in the distance. I grabbed the phone I’d left on the passenger’s seat and one-handedly dialed the first number in my mind. “Sat!” I yelled when he finally picked up. “Place an all-points bulletin on Diane’s car, NOW!”

  “Wh
ere the hell are you?”

  “I’m—” The battery died on me. If the Universe has indeed a purpose, that night the whole Olympus had gathered to fuck up my life.

  CHAPTER 47

  ____________

  Friday, October 24

  Rhesus feels safe now, soothed by the familiarity of the place. He slows the car, rolls down the window, and breathes in the brisk air of the night. The stars are out and the temperature is chilly.

  He thinks of his burning home, the price he had to pay. It will be hard to resist the temptation to go back and scavenge the debris once the fire’s out, looking for a shiny LAPD badge. He’ll have to be patient and wait before he can collect his prize.

  Rhesus smiles. Such damn luck the cop went back for his gun. He couldn’t have hoped for a better turn out. He’ll claim defective brakes on the car and collect the insurance money on the house. The money will buy him a new life, with Elizabeth by his side.

  A moan from the back shakes him out of his reverie. “What is it, my darling? Too much of a bumpy ride for you?” He stares in the rearview mirror and laughs. “You can scream as much as you want, my love. Nobody will hear out here.”

  The rim of the Santa Monica Mountains is a wavy black line against the deep blue of the night sky. Frazzled tamarisk shrubs whisper in the breeze, as they overlook the illuminated valley. Rhesus parks in his favorite spot and gets out of the car. This is where it all began, where he killed his first prey and collected his first trophy. There’s a comforting sense of peace coming from repetition, a liturgy renewed through the same actions. Rhesus looks down on the valley and stares at the geometric quilt of blinking lights.

  “We have an audience tonight,” he says, sliding his gun out of the holster strapped around his thigh. With a press of his thumb, he releases the empty magazine and inserts a loaded one. His fingers are nimble, his movements dictated by a well-rehearsed ritual.

  Rhesus racks the slide to chamber a round before topping off the mag. He smiles, the sound giving him a thrill of excitement.

  He brings the pistol to his nose and inhales. Metal, nitrate and gun oil. He walks to the back door and opens it. Diane lies on her back, her eyes fiery with hate. Her mouth is gagged and her hands and legs tied, and yet she looks nothing like defeated. Her glare is a load of spite. Rhesus grins, a wave of desire bulging in his pants. “My precious prize.”

  He clutches the grip of the gun and slides over her, pressing the barrel against her side. “Be good, now Diane,” he croons in her ear, his free hand unbuttoning her shirt and sneaking into her bra. “After all, we’ve done this many times already.”

  The bang on the roof almost makes him lose the grip on the gun. He topples over and Diane is quick to slam her bound feet into his stomach. “Bitch!” He smacks her, sinks the barrel into her throat and cranes his head out the window. Darkness.

  “Who the fuck’s out there?”

  The thought that there could be somebody out there unnerves him. He scrambles back behind the steering wheel and turns the engine on. His headlights wash onto ghostly trees surrounded by bushes. “Fuck!” He shifts to first gear and makes a U turn, holding the gun against the steering wheel. The tires skid on gravel, his foot pressed against the gas pedal. Diane wriggles and kicks the back of his seat with her bound feet. Rhesus hits the brakes and swerves. The thrust makes Diane slam against the back of his seat. He turns and smacks the butt of the gun in her face, splitting her cheek open.

  “Fucking bitch!” he yells at her.

  The right wheels are stuck in the runoff. The more Rhesus gives gas, the more the tires skid, throwing off gravel and dirt. His frustration flushes down the side of his face in heavy drips of sweat. “Damn it!” he bellows, slumping against the back of his seat. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand and stares through the windshield. “What the—”

  CHAPTER 48

  ____________

  Friday, October 24

  As soon as the car got stuck, I pulled away from my hiding spot. Lights off, I gunned the Dodge ahead, jerked the steering wheel to make a ninety-degree turn, and blocked the road. I slid out, ducked behind the hood and yelled, “Get out of the car, NOW!” I flew two rounds and put his headlights out.

  Silence fell. I couldn’t see inside the vehicle and didn’t know whether or not Diane was alive. She wouldn’t be in the front seat. I fired again. The driver’s side window shattered into pieces.

  “Drop your gun or I’ll kill her!” he bellowed. His voice came from the back of the car.

  “You squeeze the trigger and you’re dead. Either way you’ll be dead. You lost, asshole.”

  Seconds slugged by. I held the gun steady and clenched my teeth.

  “OK,” he cried. “I give up.”

  I waited. “Open the back door and toss the gun.”

  The door opened slowly. Something flew out of it and hit the dirt with a thud. It glimmered like metal, but I couldn’t be sure. I held my ground. “Let Diane out,” I ordered.

  The car gave a few jolts. She emerged, at last. Gagged and bound, she bent backwards in an unnatural way. I flinched and saw it, the gun pointed to her head. Rhesus shielded himself with her body, a hand clutching her waist, and the other wrapped around the grip of the pistol.

  Son of a bitch.

  “Changed my mind,” he said. “I may lose, but you won’t have her either.” He paused, his dark eyes fringed by Diane’s locks. They glimmered slyly. “Last chance to save her and be a hero, dick.”

  I inhaled. We meet at last, Rhesus, king of Thrace. No longer an epic character, a metaphoric inbreeding between what I knew of him and what I’d imagined. This Rhesus was real, and I loathed him. I loathed the gun he held against Diane’s head, the way his eyes lingered on her, the smell of his body, how his voice vibrated in my ears.

  I smelled the adrenaline in his sweat—a wild excitement enthused by ancestral chemical signals, both sexual and aggressive. When Ulysses came out of the Trojan horse and lowered the gates of Troy to let the Greeks into the city, the soldiers walked through the streets burning, looting, and raping. The drive to kill mixed with the sexual desire—same hormones, an identical ancestral call.

  I loathed Rhesus’s thirst for blood because in it I recognized my own. His smell was muddled with Diane’s fear. Her eyes were sprang open, her head tilted, exposing the veins pulsing in her neck. There was dried blood on the right side of her face and smeared on her forehead. She was no longer fighting.

  Rhesus bristled. “Drop the gun, you fucking cop! You fire, I fire, she’s dead. Don’t you get it?” A shrill of frustration wavered in his voice. The barrel shook against Diane’s temple.

  “You’re dead,” I hissed, my finger itching around the trigger.

  “You wouldn’t risk her life.”

  “Try me.”

  In the low light of a half moon, a drop of sweat glistened against the side of his face. I was no longer looking at him, though.

  I was staring at Diane, a multitude of what-ifs fogging my mind with their meaningless existence.

  Shoot, her eyes told me.

  I could kill you.

  Shoot. Now.

  The bastard kept his head hidden from me. There was one way only to finish him: shoot him in the head. Any other spot, even if mortal, he would’ve had the time to pull the trigger and kill Diane.

  The strain of holding Diane in that unnatural pose finally paid off. Rhesus shifted backwards, the gun in his hand faltered, and his face came in full view. I fired.

  Time mocks you, Detective.

  It took an eternity for the bullet to strike. A whole eternity during which I envisioned Diane’s blood splattered all over Rhesus’s face, her eyes accusing me. Or worse, hating me.

  Diane let out a shriek through her gagged mouth. She fell forward against the car and onto the ground. I smelled blood, but it wasn’t hers. Rhesus staggered backwards. The gun dropped from his hand. I leaped over the hood and fired four more rounds, all to his chest. Rhesus collapsed, q
uivering like fabric caught in the wind. I watched him die and kept on watching long after that. His looks defied the image of him I had concocted in my mind. Even in the grimace of death, Rhesus was surprisingly handsome.

  The sharp edges of his face were softened by a goatee, neither sparse nor thick. He had small, gray eyes underneath dark eyebrows, and his black hair—sleek with hair gel—curled loosely on his neck. A small hole wept from the middle of his forehead.

  His body stopped jerking and yet his eyes remained open. On me.

  Diane gave out a loud moan. My body was numb, my legs heavy with exhaustion. Sirens wailed in the distance, then lights wobbled uphill, towards us. I left the Glock on the ground, crouched by Diane’s side, and loosened the knot keeping her mouth gagged. As soon as I freed her, she let out a deep sob, cracked like the edge of a broken glass. I went on working on the ropes on her wrists as she kept making the sound, neither of us speaking a word. Rhesus’s blood had sprayed all over her. The headlights of a vehicle washed on us, a second one followed behind, its roof throbbing in red and blue. I heard car doors open and close, voices, radios. Satish ran by my side and helped me free Diane.

  “Fucking punctual,” I grumbled.

  “Thank the FID guys. They had an all-points on your car. We would’ve never found your location.”

  We freed Diane, helped her roll over and sit up. Her wrists and ankles were bloody and swollen. She was hyperventilating. “I’ll help her to the cruiser,” I told Satish. “Tell the guys to take her to the hospital.” Satish nodded and walked over to the officers. They were staring at Rhesus’s body and initiating the calls to the station.

  As I picked her up, Diane leaned her head over my shoulder and wept. “I didn’t want to believe it,” she sobbed. “I thought he loved me.”

  I didn’t say anything. I had enough trouble blaming myself. I’d led Diane straight into the lion’s mouth, running back for my gun instead of protecting her. And then I pulled the trigger. I could’ve killed her, yet I pulled the trigger. You’re so full of hatred you don’t have a speck of heart left to love a stupid woman who’s fallen for you.