by John Corwin
He backed away. Time to leave this nightmare but something pressed against his back. The steel door had shut behind him. Lucas panicked. He kicked the door. It screeched, warped, and fell off its hinges with a clang.
"How in the hell did I do that?" he said. His eyes widened. Then he noticed a glow to his left. One person, his back to Lucas, stood against the bar at the front of the club. A white nimbus surrounded him. "It's a dream, stupid," he said aloud to reassure himself that everything was perfectly normal though he had a nagging suspicion that something was very wrong for him to be dreaming this sort of thing. Maybe his peanut butter was going bad.
Lucas weaved his way through the mob, avoided the disgusting creatures best he could, and reached the man. He put his hand on the man's shoulder and turned him around. The man spun and faced him, his arms crooked as if still propped on the bar.
"Who are you?" Lucas asked.
The man stared past Lucas. Lucas reached forward to prod him when the man blipped back into his original position without transition. Lucas flinched. The man grabbed something and turned of his own accord. It was a glass of soured beer, judging from the odor. When Lucas saw the man's face again, he staggered back. It was the man from the picture. Unlike the others in the club, he looked normal. His skin was clean, healthy, his sensory organs intact. His movements seemed more fluid than the monsters in this place.
The man's picture flashed into his head, seeming to burn the image into his retinas. Lucas burst outside, ran across the street into a dark vacant lot, wanting nothing more than to wake up again. He pictured the normal world in his mind. Another ache knifed his brain. He gritted his teeth. When he opened his eyes, the world had returned to normal again, at least as normal as any dream world could. Music blared from the open doors of the night club. The air was clear of dust. The buildings looked newer, the asphalt darker and less worn. The bitter taste of dust faded from his mouth.
The metal cylinder pressed against Lucas's palm. He didn't remember taking it out. Someone emerged from the night club. Lucas walked woodenly across the vacant lot toward the sidewalk that ran in front of the club. He felt compelled to cross the empty street faster so he sped up. The person was staggering. A shadowy figure emerged from the alley behind the man, a blunt object in one hand and face covered in the shadow of a ball cap. Super speed. Incredible strength. It made sense now. Lucas was here to rescue the man. He was having a super hero dream after all.
The mugger saw Lucas. Stopped. The man from the picture sensed something and spun around. The mugger fled into the shadows.
Mission accomplished.
Lucas crossed the street and arrived next to the would-be victim. The man from the picture stopped and looked at Lucas, the red-brick wall forming a perfect backdrop under a dim antiquated streetlamp.
"Thanks, bro, you saved me." He held out a hand.
Lucas took the hand. "Time to go on, brother," he said in monotone. He swung up the stainless cylinder. His thumb depressed the symbol in one fluid motion as the cylinder reached the man's armpit.
The man's eyes widened for an instant. "What?" He slumped.
Lucas caught the body. Pulled the narrow stiletto blade from the puncture and pressed the symbol again. The blade retracted. He lowered the man to the sidewalk and dropped the cylinder into his pocket. Lucas's movements became automatic and he was reduced to a horrified spectator through his own eyes. From his pocket, he withdrew three stones resembling nothing more than golf-ball sized bits of gravel. After arranging the man's body in funeral repose, he placed a stone over each eye and the third over the mouth.
Though nothing seemed to happen, Lucas felt a sense of finality about this. He backed away and turned for home. A sharp pain hit his stomach and his muscles went weak. He felt like he hadn't eaten in days. Another compulsion gripped him like an iron vice and pulled him into the night.
Chapter 2
Alexia Sciouris groaned as she saw the mob of night club patrons pressing against the police line. A drunk girl stumbled past, mascara smeared around her bleary eyes. She wore a skirt that didn't quite reach below her generous bottom. Alexia veered around the crowd and found a chubby cop guarding an alleyway that led to the back of the club.
"Miss, you can't be here," the cop said flicking a meaty index finger back the way she'd come. "Please go back."
Alexia flipped open her badge. "IARE official business."
"Who?"
She pointed to the FBI logo at the bottom.
"Ah, sorry, lady. I mean, agent. Follow the alley on around and you'll come out behind the lines."
Alexia flipped the badge closed and slipped it into her pocket. She didn't blame the cop. Most FBI agents wore dark suits. She was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Unlike her mother agency, IARE was informal, the agents more independent. After picking her way past rank dumpsters filled with old alcohol and splats of vomit from overenthusiastic clubbers, she exited the alley on the other side of Club Dementia. A tall black detective hovered over a team of forensic specialists. He turned to speak to someone else when his eyes locked onto her.
"Who the hell are you?"
"Alexia Sciouris," she said, pulling out the badge again. "Special agent with IARE."
"Jesus Christ on a pogo stick. What in the hell does IARE want with this scene?"
"Preliminary details—"
"Don't mean jack, agent. Don't the feds have better things to do than to poke around in every bizarre homicide?"
"What do you mean?"
"This is the fourth scene I've had an IARE nut bag show up to. None of those homicides were tied to religious extremists. I'm starting to believe it's another FBI snow job designed to give them more say in local investigations."
Alexia had had enough. "Detective, I really don't care how you feel. I'm here on federal authority by special commission of the President. If you don't like it, why don't you find a corner somewhere in this lovely alley and suck your thumb?"
The detective's eyes widened and he took a step back. After a few seconds he grinned and extended a hand. "I think I like you better than the other jackass already. I'm Detective Jefferson Jackson. Yeah, two last names."
She shook the proffered hand. He had a firm but not unpleasant grip for such a large man. "Other jackass?"
"Yeah. Same guy showed up for several other homicide scenes and really gave the uniforms a hard time."
"Description?"
"Light blond hair, blue eyes, about five foot ten, and pale as the moon. Name is Victor something-or-other."
"Don't think I know him."
"How many agents are in IARE?"
"Not that many. I'm surprised I haven't met him."
"If that son of a bitch is an impostor, I'm gonna tear his nuts off."
"I'd like to see the body," Alexia said.
"Yeah, sure." Jackson took her around the corner of the building. It was already past three in the morning but the crowd of onlookers hadn't diminished. "Victim's name is David Young."
A CSI technician asked them to stay back from the body site, so they stood about twenty feet away and observed. Young's body was lying straight, arms folded over his chest as one would in a coffin. Besides the unnaturally pale skin and the stones over his eyes and mouth, he could have been sleeping. Not a drop of blood showed.
"Was he robbed?"
"Nope," Jackson said. "Nothing touched from what we could tell. The killer stabbed the victim just below the armpit with a very narrow object. We determined that from a blood spot on the shirt and a hole. It was a precision kill. Pierced the heart. Might've had some poison on the blade."
"And the stones?"
"Hell if we know. The sick son of a bitch glued them to the victim."
"Glued?"
"Far as we can tell. The forensics guys tried to remove one, but it wouldn't budge." He paused and stared at the body for a moment, seeming to consider something.
Alexia sighed. "If you have something else to say, just say it. I won't think you're crazy."<
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Jackson smiled. "Have some experience at this, huh? I was gonna say that the stones were freezing cold. When I say cold, I don't mean out-of-the-freezer cold. I mean dry ice cold."
"Did someone touch one bare fingered?"
"Thank God no. Took the tip off a glove before someone measured the temperature. It came in at a hundred ten below zero."
"Are they still cold?"
"Not so much." He pointed to a thermometer with a thin strip of wire touching the stone. It showed fifteen below zero.
"Maybe it's not glue holding on those stones, then," Alexia said. "Probably the cold froze the moisture in the skin and bonded them on."
"I'll bet you're right." He looked at her for a moment. "Think it's religiously motivated?"
Alexia examined the stones best as she could from the distance. They resembled ordinary construction gravel. She shrugged at the detective's question. "I'll need background on this guy and a lot more information before I can determine that." She looked at an empty lot across the road. Several construction trucks were visible, their cabs rising above the crowd. "Are they using gravel over there?" She pointed out the site.
"I'll send someone to check." Jackson walked away and spoke into his radio.
Alexia took out her camera and made detailed pictures of the scene. While she waited on Jackson, she perched on a foldout chair next to the CSI van and connected to the FBI network. As she uploaded the pictures and put in a request for the victim's bio, Jackson returned.
"What do you make of this?" He held out a few bits of gravel, similar to those on the victim's face.
"We need them analyzed to see if they're identical to the stones on Young's body."
"I can tell you right now they sure look the same." Jackson rolled one in his fingers. "Now tell me this. Why would someone pick up the stones across the road, freeze them cold as dry ice, then waltz over and kill this guy? How could the perp get the stones so damned cold?"
"I don't know. Premeditation enters the equation unless the gravel came from across the road. Of course the perpetrator could have taken the gravel some time ago and frozen it."
"Maybe the perp didn't like the construction going on over there. Maybe the victim worked there and this is a political statement."
Alexia looked at the first of her search results as they came in. David Young didn't have a criminal record. Most of the hits came from the Georgia DMV and property tax files. "According to what I have, Mr. Young was a sales executive for a pharmaceuticals company. His address is five miles from here."
"No connection to the construction?"
"Not unless it's recent."
There was a commotion in the crowd. A cop on the line yelled angrily at someone. He turned and motioned to Jackson. Jackson took a look and groaned. Following his gaze, Alexia made out pale blond hair. Victor, no doubt. Jackson walked over, his face set in stone. After a brief conversation, he returned. Victor was very pale indeed, though not an albino. His hair was white-blonde and his body short and pudgy. He breathed heavily as if having just run a hundred-meter dash, although carrying around that super-sized belly on his short legs was probably an exercise in itself.
"Let me see your credentials," Victor said to Alexia, holding a fat sweaty hand out like a child asking for candy at Halloween.
"You first."
"Oh, we've got an attitude in this one," he said as if telling an invisible friend. He scowled and dug into his laptop case, pulled out an official-looking badge case. He flipped it open. Alexia took it without asking and examined the FBI hologram. It looked authentic. She typed his name, Victor Drysen, into her laptop and pulled up his profile. He seemed legit. She clicked on a link for special attachments and realized why she'd never heard of him before. He was attached directly to the President's special task force on religious extremism. Her skin went cold. This guy had high connections.
"I guess that'll do." Alexia handed Victor her ID, hoping to head off any further hostility.
He inspected her ID and raised an eyebrow. "I've heard of you," he said, handing it back. "The Dover case."
Alexia suppressed a shudder. "Yes."
"Quite a disaster." He grunted. "Most people don't take IARE very seriously, agent. I'm here to ensure they do."
"I do take it—"
He cut her off with a pudgy hand. "Judging how pale your face went when you saw my ID, I assume you know how much influence I have in the department."
Alexia's eye twitched.
"A suggestion, Agent Sciouris. Don't get in my way. Don't ever, ever question me. I can have you transferred so quick you won't know what happened or where you are for a week."
"Understood, sir." Her hands tightened on the base of the laptop. Her face was burning with a mix of anger and embarrassment.
Victor smiled. "Now that you know your place in the grand scheme of things, we can move forward and hopefully avoid a repeat of the Dover case." He held out a hand. "Your laptop, please."
Alexia gave him the laptop and stalked away. Jackson followed.
"That little shit," he said.
"More like a big shit. A big pile of shit. No wonder he pushes everyone around."
"Does this mean you're off the case? What's the Dover case?"
"It's the reason I'm in IARE. Despite what Victor says, we're the joke of the FBI."
"I won't argue with you there," Jackson said with a grin. "He takes it too seriously, though. He shows up at any crime scene with strange circumstances and bosses everyone around. Then he leaves without telling us what the hell he was looking for. He's like the fat retarded version of that guy from the X-Files."
Victor walked over and returned Alexia's laptop. "Interesting material. We may have a keeper here."
"Am I off this assignment then?"
"No. Despite your shortcomings, I may need an assistant on this one."
Alexia ground her teeth but somehow kept from punching his fat face. "Where would you like me to start?"
"I'm not a micromanager, Agent Sciouris. Show some initiative and keep me informed." He stepped a little closer. "By that, I mean well informed. If you're going to question anyone, tell me in advance. I want daily reports on anything of interest."
"Can I get you coffee while I'm at it?"
A smug grin appeared on his face. "Not just yet. In the meantime, I have other avenues to pursue." He turned and walked away.
Jackson chuckled. "Hate to be you."
Alexia flicked a lock of black hair from her face and grimaced. "Me too."
She walked across the street to the construction site and looked around. Too many people had been through the area so finding the killer's footprints among the others would be impossible. She gave up and walked back to the scene as a skinny black man loaded a gurney with Young's body into the coroner's van.
"I'm done for now," she said to Jackson.
He promised to keep her informed best he could.
Alexia made for her car a few blocks away and took off for the hotel. It was almost five a.m. already, but she didn't expect to get much sleep. Despite Victor's demeaning remarks, this case made her very curious. After three years of chasing ghosts with IARE, she felt she'd stumbled onto something that really had to do with a religious cult. The base of her neck tingled. Any time she got that feeling, it meant something important to her future. She had first realized the uncanny accuracy of her intuition when she felt the tingle just before getting into a car with some friends after a high school football game. She'd decided to ride home with her aunt. An hour later, everyone in that car was dead. The driver, who'd been drinking, had collided head-on with a semi-truck.
This time, the tingle was stronger than usual. Something big was brewing. As she neared downtown, flashing lights from a patrol car caught her eye. She slowed and rubbernecked, noticed a cop standing outside a butcher shop. Alexia pulled to a stop and showed her badge to the uniform. "What you got?"
"Isn't this kind of small-time for the FBI?" he asked. "Just a break-in."
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Alexia smiled. "I was on my way back from a murder scene."
"Yeah, over on Cheshire, right? I didn't get in on that action."
Alexia walked to the shop and noticed the shattered window. Large glass panes covered the storefront. Metal bars lined the panes. The bars behind the broken window were bent wide enough for someone to walk through.
"My God."
"That's what I was saying," the cop said. "I could probably bend one of them bars if I braced the other with my foot, but not four of 'em."
"Got a light?"
The cop handed her his service flashlight.
Refrigerated display cases full of butchered meat surrounded a large open area inside. The refrigeration units hummed. A flickering florescent light glowed in the back of the store. Streaks of blackened blood smeared the walls, the floor. Raw meat had been flung all over the place. Alexia shined the light on a piece of filet mignon but didn't see any bite marks. The intruder had smashed open a couple of cases and ravaged the contents.
A car pulled into the parking lot and a man leapt out.
"My store! How the hell did they get in?"
"Mr. Parker, I'm the officer who called you," said the cop.
Mr. Parker's jaw dropped when he saw the bent bars. "Holy Mary, mother of Jesus." He made the sign of the cross.
"May I have the keys, Mr. Parker?" Alexia asked. She had the tingle stronger than ever now, like baby spiders with pointy steel legs dancing up her neck.
He handed them over. Alexia opened the door and played the light around to make sure the place was empty. "Are there any back ways out?"
"There's a steel door to the back alley."
"Ain't you gonna announce yourself before going in?" the cop asked.
Standard procedure. Alexia wasn't sure she wanted to announce herself to whomever or whatever had bent the bars. She entered quietly, careful to step around the bits of raw beef, chicken and pork. None of the meat looked chewed. Then she saw a smashed case in the back of the room. It was a small case. A few half-eaten heads of lettuce had spilled out of it. The chomped remains of broccoli and carrots lay in a pile at the base of the unit. An even larger pile of beets in similar condition lay nearby. Who in their right mind would break into a butcher store and eat the produce? A psychotic rabbit?
