Brethren

by Shawn Ryan

  Yes, he was in pretty good shape, Stephen thought, but was it good enough? If what he thought was approaching, could he handle it? Handle it again? He could admit it to himself. He was scared.

  For almost an hour, sleep danced around him, teasing and taunting but never coming close enough to grab. When he finally nodded off, he was no less nervous, no less worried.

  He awoke suddenly several hours later, his eyes snapping open and his mind in a state of crystalline clarity. There had been no noises; none were needed. He knew what was happening.

  He sat upright in bed, the covers falling away from his neck. He jumped as they crumpled to a pile at his waist.

  My Lord, the room is frigid, he thought. His rapid breaths formed Siberian clouds in front of his face.

  He looked quickly to the windows, closed to keep the air conditioning inside. The panes were covered in thick ice—on the inside. Even the wood between the panes was sheathed and glistening, a diamond-clear covering that, except for the fuzzy, muted light from outside, shut out the world.

  And I'm shut in, Stephen thought.

  As he stared at the windows, he saw the curtains gently lift and sway, as if a slight breeze made the fabric dance. What emerged was no breeze.

  An opaque band of mist oozed from behind the drapes and slithered slowly along the wall, brushing past the paintings, over the chest of drawers and across the dresser, where it left a line of ice on the mirror. As it moved, it swirled in a corkscrew spiral and Stephen could see faces, twisted in pain, appear in the fog, then quickly dissipate. Vague moanings rose from the heart of the mist.

  It snaked past the open bathroom door without entering and continued to the corner of the room, where it veered away from the wall and aimed itself at the bed, a sinuous cobra approaching its prey.

  Stephen sat stone still as wintry tentacles crawled over the edge of the bed, along the comforter and up his right hip. Climbing over his thigh, the fog coiled around him, starting at his waist and moving up. The cold was so intense it burned. His skin turned to goose bumps and his balls drew into his body, tightening to almost painful knots of muscle and fiber.

  Winding upward, the stream encircled his head. For a moment, the band simply spun itself about his head, creating a chilling band around his skull. Then it clamped down.

  Nausea swept through Stephen's body. Malignant visions assaulted his mind. Bodies writhed as their faces were ripped off in baconlike strips. Faces contorted as their limbs were twisted until they broke, then broke again. Screams echoed as abdomens were slit open and the entrails pulled out and laid on the chest like a newborn baby on its mother's belly.

  Just as Stephen thought he would vomit, the fog leisurely unwrapped itself from his head, leaving him shivering with cold and revulsion. Flowing off the end of the bed, the mist moved toward the door, spreading out as it flowed, expanding into a rolling cloud extending from floor to ceiling. A shape began to rise within but the fog hid its contents with eddies and backwaters of vapor. Stephen watched and waited.

  "Hello, Stephen," the guttural hiss said from the cloud. "How nice to see you again after all these years."

  Stephen jumped, then mentally cursed himself for showing such a strong reaction.

  "Oh, did I scare you?" the voice said with hateful sarcasm. "I'm so sorry."

  "I was wondering when you'd show up," Stephen said, searching the fog for a solid shape. "You're too much a creature of habit to change your ways now. You're predictable."

  "Am I?" the voice said silkily. "Am I really?"

  From out of the fog extended a hand as wide as the blade of a shovel. The color of dark bronze, each of its long fingers was tipped with twin nails, bloodthirsty scalpels jutting out two inches. The index finger pointed at Stephen, light sparkling off the razor edges of its nails.

  "Too predictable? I could say the same for you, Stephen," the voice scraped. "However, you have changed in one way. You've gotten old."

  Stephen looked at the powerful hand, remembering how a blow from it had sent him flying twenty feet and shattered three of his ribs. He ran the fingers of his hand down the foot-long scar along his right thigh, another by-product from a swipe of that claw.

  High in the fog, only a few inches under the nine-foot ceiling, two points of flaming silver ignited. Stephen felt evil hatred grip him like a vise. It was a living thing, capable of squeezing the life out of him.

  Raising his arms in a cross, Stephen passed them in front of his chest, crossing his heart with the palms inward. The air crackled and spit as a thin, almost transparent sheen of blue light enveloped him.

  "Don't worry, old man," the beast sneered. "There's no need to protect yourself with such pitiful spells. I'm not here for you."

  "Forgive me if I don't trust you completely," Stephen answered.

  The beast chuckled, a raspy sound like dry leaves burning. "Indeed," it said.

  "Just why are you here, if not for me?" Stephen asked.

  "To let you know I've been thinking about you, Stephen," the voice said. "About you and the whole Medlocke family."

  The name "Medlocke" was spit with disgust.

  "I'm not through with you yet," it said. "I'm not through with your family yet."

  "You're still not smart enough to give up, are you?" Stephen said, his voice remaining calm. "We've kicked your ass for the past five hundred years. Haven't you had enough? Or are you truly that stupid?"

  Stephen heard an angry intake of breath, a thick, asthmatic wheeze. A low growling came from inside the fog and Stephen saw a horrible face press itself closer to the outer edge of the cloud. The eyes burned above high, protruding cheekbones, and a mouth full of teeth grinned wickedly. As the growling increased, Stephen saw an M begin to glow a virulent green on the left side of the beast's face, scar tissue cutting across the eye and cheekbone in a hideous brand. The flow of hatred strengthened, and Stephen felt it push against his protective shield.

  "What about your wife?" the voice spit back. "What about what I did to her?"

  It was Stephen's turn to flinch and his eyes tightened.

  "You did nothing to her," he said quietly. "She didn't give you the chance. She was too smart for you, which isn't hard to do considering your success rate over the past few centuries. You must be a real embarrassment to your family. What does it take to get through that malformed head of yours that you're a loser?"

  A roar split the room. The windowpanes shook and their icy sheaths shattered, tinkling in tiny pieces to the carpet. Two hands swung upward from the fog, ripping through the ceiling and tearing great gashes of plaster that fell in a white, dusty cloud. The hands grabbed the ceiling fan and yanked it from the socket, sparks flying, then flung it into the far wall, where it ripped through a painting of Stephen's great-grandfather, Nathaniel Medlocke.

  Thundering around the room inside the fog, the beast swept its hands across the top of the dresser, sending vases and other knickknacks flying. The overpowering smell of cologne filled the room as several bottles shattered under the beast's fury. With its nails, it dug trenches into the wall, talons slicing through plaster and wood alike.

  Passing in front of the mirror, it stopped. Stephen could practically see it trembling within the cloud as it gazed at its reflection. With a musical crash, the beast slammed its fist into the glass, bringing back shredded knuckles that dripped thick, black blood.

  Turning to face Stephen, its anger reached an apex, eyes flashing into nuclear brilliance. The beast rushed the bed, hands outstretched. Stephen flinched involuntarily, but as the hands reached the blue aura, a horrid sizzling erupted. The creature howled, falling backward and shaking its hands as smoke rose from their blistered fingertips.

  "I'll have you, Medlocke," it screamed. "I'll tear your eyes from your head and piss in the sockets. I'll rip your heart out and make you kiss it before I eat it. I'll fuck your ass then make you suck my cock."

  "So you do have a dick," Stephen said. "I always wondered if you were a eunuch."

&nb
sp; The fog rippled with anger and hatred. Stephen steeled himself for a second charge and wondered if he could withstand it. But just as he expected it to happen, loud laughter burst from inside the fog. The laughter—a sharp, high-pitched cackle—was worse than any sound the beast had made. Stephen cringed.

  "Oh, you're quite good, Stephen, quite the strategist," it said as its laughter subsided. "You make me angry, make me use up all my energy. You know I can't stay long in this world, at least, not without help and… how shall I say it? Protection. Yes, protection you humans provide so nicely with your blood.

  "But I came here for another purpose and I will have my say. It's about your son, Stephen. It's about Jason. I have plans for him. Big plans. I've paid him some visits, Stephen, just to tease him. Of course, he does not understand yet. But he shall. I shall be his teacher."

  Stephen's eyes widened slightly, and the beast noticed.

  "Ah, yes, you know as well as I, Stephen. He's your weak link. You were foolish not to tell him his heritage, Stephen, very foolish.

  "Yes, I know you haven't spoken to him yet," the voice continued. "You had the perfect opportunity when I killed his wife and daughter, but you let it slip by. Now it's too late. He's mine."

  "You underestimate him," Stephen said. "You underestimate us. He's stronger than you think; we're stronger than you know."

  "Not strong enough, old man. You're weak physically; he's weak in his powers. Even if you tell him now, he won't have time to develop his strength, not well enough to stop me. It's too late. I've waited over five hundred years and it's my turn to dance. I'll have your heart and your son's, too.

  "So tell Jason everything. My victory will be that much sweeter when he tries to stop me and I crush his soul."

  The fog moved rapidly to the door, passing through the solid oak with only a ripple, like that of a pebble thrown into a still pond. As it moved through the gateway, the beast spoke.

  "Goodbye, Stephen. See you soon."

  The portal closed with a slight sucking sound, then it was gone.

  Stephen waited several minutes, then climbed out of bed and went to the door, the blue cone of protection crackling. Taking his right hand, he reached out and touched the door. Solid wood. The gateway was closed.

  Waving his hands, Stephen dropped the blue aura. His shoulders sagged when it vanished. It had taken more out of him than he expected.

  "Damn, I am getting old," he said.

  Standing in the middle of his room, he looked at the wreck the beast had made. Shattered bottles, dust and destruction lay everywhere. Mrs. McCrady will have a fit if she sees this, Stephen mused. He'd fix it in a couple of minutes with a wave of his hand. Right now, though, he needed to think.

  The catastrophe around him was evidence only of the beast's physical power. It didn't unleash the others, saving them for the real confrontation. This was merely a warning, an egomaniacal jest. But it spoke as though it had every intention of remaining here the next time it came. What new trick had it learned? Stephen wondered. That the beast had unseen weapons in its arsenal was a horrifying possibility.

  Stephen leaned his head back and spoke to the ceiling.

  "Dear God, have I really fucked up this badly?"

  Chapter 18

  « ^ »

  The name of the girl found on the pitcher's mound was Vanessa Strickland. She was twelve and a student at Lanier Middle School. And the only difference between her death and the other two was the speed. She was missing for only a few hours before her body was found.

  Their faces slack and their voices monotone, Bob Strickland and his wife, Dawn, told Jason and Badger that they'd just returned from seeing Lethal Weapon 3 when police called.

  "Vanessa was supposed to be on a field trip with her school class," Mrs. Strickland said. "They were going to see a Shakespeare play at the Civic Center then go to The Varsity for dinner."

  "They weren't even supposed to be home until about ten," her husband continued. "So we went to a movie. We haven't done that in a long time. We thought she'd be okay."

  After getting statements from the Stricklands, Jason and Badger interviewed Vanessa's friends. They learned that she'd never made it to the bus for the field trip.

  Friends said they last saw Vanessa about three-thirty, just after school let out. She was heading home to change for the field trip, but never returned. The school chaperone, an English teacher named Wyn Sheffield, called the Strickland's house, but there was no answer. "I called several times and, since there was no answer, I figured Vanessa must be with her parents," Ms. Sheffield said as tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Notebooks on their desks sitting next to steaming cups of coffee, Jason and Badger delved into their notes again and again. All the statements checked out. No suspects. No clues. No nothing.

  The door opened and Buzz Saunders walked in. His eyes were even more red-rimmed and blurry than usual. A lit cigarette dangled from his lips. He took it from his mouth, flicked the ashes into the trash can, then laid it on the edge of Badger's desk.

  "She died about four," Saunders said, his voice almost as monotone as the Stricklands'. "Same MO. Blow to the back of her head. Strangulation marks on her neck. Traces of metal in the wound, looks like another outdoor saw. She was raped… after she was dead."

  His first cigarette still burning on Badger's desk, Saunders reached into his chest pocket, drew out another and lit it.

  "Buzz, you've already got one going," Badger said quietly.

  Saunders looked down at the smoking butt. His eyes showed no surprise. "Oh, yeah. So I do," he said. But he didn't do anything about it. Badger picked up the smoked butt and ground it out on the lip of the trash can.

  "I'm fucked, guys," Saunders said. "It's all the same thing. Dead kids and no clues to help. I'm losing sleep already. Having bad dreams. Seeing these kids in them. I'm fucked. Just fucked."

  He walked out and closed the door behind him. Jason and Badger looked at each other in silence.

  Norman Bibb's report was much the same. Forensics found no trace of fibers and only some smudged fingerprints. No clues. Back to square one. There weren't even any footprints around the body.

  Captain Silverman was livid. "There must be something!" he thundered at a staff meeting. "Did the fucker fly?"

  "How did the killer know about Maxwell and Santucci and their comments about not falling asleep?" he demanded. "How did the Mercy Killer type up a note so fast? How did he create the green phosphorescent line that led from home plate to the note? There are answers to all of these questions. The answers are out there. You're just not finding them. Not thinking hard enough."

  Silverman stopped for a moment, his face flushed.

  "So go find them, goddammit!" he yelled.

  For the question of how the Mercy Killer knew about Maxwell and Santucci, all the lab or Jason and Badger could come up with was that he must have been very close by, out of sight and perhaps using some sort of directional microphone to pick up what the police officers were saying. It was a weak, unsatisfying answer and a search around the high school turned up nothing to substantiate the possibility.

  Forensics found no traces of substances in the soil to indicate some sort of chemical reaction to create the line.

  "I am totally bewildered," Bibb said. "Reactions always leave trace elements. It's a law of physics. I don't know how this was done. It's almost as if it was never really there."

  Neither did anyone have an explanation for how the note was typed so fast and attached to the sign so quickly. No one wanted to suggest that the Mercy Killer carried a typewriter with him, even though that seemed the most plausible—if it could be called that—explanation.

  While the note's grammar and syntax indicated that it might be written by a different person than the one who wrote the first two, forensics said it came from the same typewriter. "The Mercy Killer must be getting cocky. That would explain this new, snotty attitude," Jason speculated.

  "That still doesn't get us any closer t
o discovering who he is," Badger said.

  "Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit!" Silverman almost screamed when the inconclusive reports were brought to him.

  And so it went the day after Vanessa's murder. And the day after that, and into the third day.

  While Badger went home at night to take care of his kids, Jason spent most of his time at headquarters. At one stretch, he stayed there for twenty-four hours straight, showering in the station's locker room and changing back into the same clothes.

  He felt a personal responsibility for these crimes, a weight that bore down on him like a Tomahawk missile, never veering, never losing its target. The killer knew him, hated him, and somehow these murders were connected to that hatred. Jason racked his brain, trying to discover the link.

  He reread all the reports on cases he had handled since coming to Gwinnett, hoping to find some clue. When that turned up nothing, he called the Boston Police Department and talked to Bill Katzopoulos, his old partner there, asking him to telex any case he thought might have a connection. Katzopoulos agreed, but warned it might take some time to round up all the old files.

  A week after Vanessa's body was found, Jason finally got around to calling his father on the off chance that this might be family connected. He had intended to call his dad earlier, just to get his advice, but each time the thought crossed his mind, something distracted him and he forgot to call.

  This time his hand was on the receiver, his finger on the first digit in his father's number, when the phone rang underneath his palm. He answered to an unfamiliar voice.

  "Jason Medlocke?" the voice asked.

  "This is he."

  "Mr. Medlocke, this is Dr. Janokowski, your father's physician."