by Brett Savory
When she saw Steve’s body, she stopped dead, her mouth fell open just a little, then she very deliberately moved over to the nearest flat surface, placed the coffee cups on it, and said almost too quietly for Henry to hear: “What have you done?”
T E N
Small, one-bedroom apartment. Spiral-bound notepad. The top of the first page reads: Inferne Cutis: Latin for “below the skin.”
That’s what they call themselves. Pretentious motherfuckers.
William Krebosche looked up from his notes, read the clock on his bedside table: 2:47 a.m. He’d been listening to his digital voice recorder and transcribing every word for the past three hours. Even though it was very clear, he wasn’t able to salvage all of it. Some words when they entered his brain just became unintelligible, garbled by some external filter he didn’t understand. Something unknown that, for whatever reason, protected the Inferne Cutis from scrutiny. Soon enough, the very notion of this filter would fade, just like the other memories.
As it turned three o’clock, and the recording finally ended, Krebosche leaned back in his chair, rubbed his eyes, and steeled himself for the fact that he would now have to write the entire article in one sitting, as quickly as he could, so that it made some kind of sense by the time it was finished. He planned to have the piece published in the local newspaper through an editor acquaintance, Paul Darby, who worked there. He hoped it would then be picked up by larger outlets, and the domino effect would take over.
He thought briefly about Edward Palermo, who should be dead right now. Once Carl Duncan had left the warehouse on Kendul’s trail, and Palermo’s men were back inside, Krebosche’s uncle Gerald – who’d witnessed firsthand, as had William, the “accident” that set them all down this path – was supposed to kill Palermo. Just walk into his ridiculous little caboose and put him down. But in a heartbeat, that plan had gone to shit. Gerald had panicked when Palermo sent men out to search the grounds.
Krebosche would shed tears over his uncle later, but he did wish one more had been added to the list before the body count was over.
Which made him think, too, about Carl Duncan, his old high school friend –
– his only friend, his conscience didn’t let him forget.
Yes, OK, only friend, then. Although he wasn’t entirely convinced that he was capable of having what other people called friends – could count on one hand (and even that was overkill, if he was being honest) the number of people he’d ever thought of as such. And all those relationships ended horrendously, anyway, through no fault of his own. Or at least that’s what he told himself. On some level, he knew there was something socially wrong with him, but he’d always been unclear what it was that drove people away. What it was precisely.
No word from Duncan so, yes, most certainly dead. Or at least beyond saving. Not that Krebosche would have tried to save him, of course. As soon as their plan had been devised, Krebosche had emotionally cut ties in his mind. His heart. He was capable of this – of simply shutting that part of himself off. A clean, quick cut.
As for the full plan, well, Duncan following Kendul back to where the Hunters hid out would have given them more ammunition for their story, naturally, but it wasn’t to be. Palermo was smart, had eyes everywhere around his warehouse. Of course he did. Krebosche expected as much, but still hoped for the best. But because he’d expected Palermo would be prepared, he’d sent Duncan in to do the up-close work – which Duncan was foolish and bullheaded enough to be more than happy to do. A loner himself, Duncan had an inflated view of his and William’s friendship, which William had never downplayed. He knew he’d need people to help him carry out his plan as the time grew nearer. And family and friends (well, just “friend”) worked best – there was loyalty to be mined there. And again, if he was being honest, he likely wouldn’t shed much in the way of tears for his uncle, either. Gerald was just a witness, involved due to his own heartbreak. The only one in his trainwreck of a family he’d ever truly cared for was his sister. Dead now, shot in the side of the head by one of the Hunters’ stray bullets…
But that road didn’t bear going down right now. There was work to be done. Plans to be adjusted. Memories to be saved.
But still this memory played again in his head, unstoppable as always:
Bright day, really bright. In memory’s eye, it’s blinding. He and Gerald had taken his little sister, Marla, to an afternoon movie, gone for ice cream afterward. The theatre was off the beaten path, near an industrial area, a favorite of his uncle’s. Not in the greatest neighborhood, but Krebosche was OK with it since he and Gerald were both with her. Krebosche was nearly ten years older than his sister, so he’d always felt closer to a parent than a brother. Always watched out for her, never let anything bad happen.
The sun was setting and they’d had to find parking a few blocks away from the theatre. A sketchy part of town, for sure, but nothing overly alarming. Until they heard what sounded like gunshots coming from a few blocks away. Just a few at first, then a peppering. He exchanged a concerned look with his uncle, but immediately thought maybe it was a car backfiring. Maybe kids with firecrackers. Certainly nothing that–
–more shots, this time closer. Krebosche holding his sister’s hand tightly, then easing up a little as they continued walking, the sense of alarm, the memories of the sounds seemingly being washed away from his mind. He looked at his uncle again, but this time there was barely a reaction on the other man’s face. He just looked mildly troubled, as though thinking of something a co-worker had said to him that had bugged him that day, or replaying a mild argument he’d had with his wife. Annoyance, not alarm, not true concern. Even though the sounds were getting closer.
Looking back on it these many years later, Krebosche thinks that what happened next might be due to the fact that children aren’t as susceptible to whatever memory wipe weirdness is at play in keeping the Inferne Cutis hidden; children are much less likely to dismiss things with rational explanations. They’re curious, fearless. Sometimes – often – to their detriment.
In Krebosche’s mind, the gunshots/firecrackers/backfires dulled to a barely recognizable pulsing at the back of his skull. The three of them passed by the mouth of an alleyway as the streetlights above popped on. If they’d turned their heads at that moment, they would have seen someone getting shot by two other people. Bullets jabbing into their head, neck, and chest. As it was, in Gerald’s and William’s brains, there was nothing to see, no sounds to attract their attention.
And the car was just up ahead. His sister was excited, wanted to run, maybe wanted to race them to the car.
Krebosche felt his grip loosen a little bit. A little more. More yet… And then she was running ahead, nearly past the mouth of the alley now, when she suddenly lilted sideways, the side of her head burst open, a red blossom of bone and blood.
She fell, smacked the pavement hard.
Only then did the sounds filter enough into the two men’s heads for them to react. Gunshots. And panic crowded into their chests. They rushed to Marla’s unmoving body. Instantly knew she was dead. Looked down the alley. No sign of anyone. They didn’t know it then, but the Run had simply moved on, to other alleys, other sections of the industrial park. Those involved likely had no idea about the bullet that had ricocheted off the brick of a wall, the corner of a dumpster. However it had gone astray was of little consequence. What mattered was that it had killed Krebosche’s sister.
Though even now, he had to struggle to hold onto this fact. He felt something behind his forehead airbrushing, massaging the information. The wheres and hows.
But it had never been quite enough to wash it completely from his mind, his heart. The pain was more important, proved more durable than whatever this whitewashing effect was. He’d had to continually remind his uncle, nearly daily, what had happened. But for him, it stuck harder. Clung tighter.
Maybe because he was younger. Maybe because it had been his hand that’d let her go.
Shaking his
head, dispelling the memory, Krebosche stood up, went to the washroom, splashed cold water on his face, then headed to the kitchen to put on a fresh pot of coffee. Time to get writing. Once the story hit – and if it did get picked up by the major newspapers – it would be all over the Internet, on people’s cell phones. Everywhere. It couldn’t be forgotten. He’d work tirelessly to spread it as far and wide as possible at every opportunity. The truth couldn’t stay hidden forever – not with a massive spotlight like this shining on it. It would gain momentum. He’d get invited onto TV shows to talk about what he’d seen, what he’d heard. Whatever it was that clouded people’s minds would not be able to stand up to such exposure. The story would solidify, be investigated by authorities.
And I know where they hide… the Runners, anyway, he thought. And once they were in custody, the Hunters’ hideout would soon be discovered, too, he’d no doubt.
It was all just a matter of time.
Krebosche’s coffeemaker beeped, signaling he had a full pot ready. He poured himself a cup, and began writing.
Five hours later, the sun having risen but still tucked away behind a thick layer of dark clouds, Krebosche had the bare bones of the piece. Some holes, some confusing bits, and a lot of questions sure to come from his editor friend. Krebosche had been tracking Palermo for nearly two years, with last night’s foray planned to be the icing on the cake. But Palermo’s and Kendul’s deaths would have to wait. Exposing them and watching their society crumble would have to be enough for now.
Not that Krebosche knew what the Inferne Cutis was, exactly. For all his notes and tireless spying, he’d only come up with a partial picture of what they did. He’d only ever seen one Run – and only a very short portion of that, which had already mostly faded from his mind. Only little bits and pieces of his memory of that night still remained. Though he had also seen a woman taken into a house and never come out again. A woman he knew. Cared for.
But he blocked this path of thought, as he’d been unable to do with the memory of his sister. Enough, he thought. Just… enough. No more of this tonight…
He knew – far better than most everyone else – about the weird memory blanket that came down over everything they did. He’d never spoken to anyone who knew a single thing about this group of people. The only ones he’d been able to convince of their existence were his uncle Gerald, and his friend Carl – Gerald because he, along with Krebosche, had seen the killing that changed their lives, and Carl because he was desperate to believe he was valued, needed. He realized quickly that to convince anyone else he needed to amass evidence, gather it, organize it, footnote it, save multiple copies of it, then pore over it in hope that portions of it would stick in his mind so he wouldn’t lose focus. He reread as much as possible of his notes every single day.
And now, he thought, with his finger hovering over the Send button of his email program, Paul Darby’s addy in the To field of the message, it would either be enough, or it wouldn’t. Simple as that.
He clicked the button.
* * *
“What is this crap?” Darby said on the phone fifteen minutes later. “How many times do I have to tell you to quit with this fucking paranoid bullshit?”
“It’s not paranoia,” Krebosche said. “I saw them kill my little sister. I think they killed another woman, too.”
“You saw this with your own eyes?” Darby said.
“Yes, I did.” Krebosche tried to remain calm, but irritation was creeping into his voice. He couldn’t help it. He’d been dealing with Darby’s attitude for at least a year, and he was reaching the end of his rope with the smug fucker.
“Uh-huh,” Darby said.
Silence.
“Listen, Darby, I know this seems far-fetched, but–”
“Yeah, just a little,” Darby said, cutting Krebosche off. “For instance, explain to me why no one else has heard of these mysterious gangsters. The infernal whatever-the-fucks.”
“Inferne Cutis.”
“Yeah, them. And besides murder, what else are you accusing them of? Running around in the streets shooting at each other over near Barton and Carter – for hours. Like no one in the neighborhood would have heard that, maybe woken up to see what the fuck was going on. No cops would’ve been by to investigate the fuckton of noise that would’ve caused. The hospitals and the morgue just might’ve also had some record of the bodies, don’t you think? Where’d they go? Vanished into the fucking ether, just like these ridiculous theories and accusations ought to?”
“I don’t know how they do it, Darby,” Krebosche said, knowing how weak it all sounded, “but there’s some kind of… I dunno… weird blanket that suffuses their activity, muffles the gunshots, wipes people’s memories when they do happen to see what’s going on. Something makes our eyes just slide right off these people, makes our brains cancel them out. Hell, I tried to take pictures of the night I saw them shooting each other, and all I got back on the camera were gray and black blurs, so indistinct they could’ve been anything at all. The only way I know as much as I do is because of how long I’ve been tracking them. And the only way I’ve been able to do that is by writing myself notes, reminding myself that what I’m after is real, isn’t some fucking delusion. I’m wrung out from it all, but I know I’m close to something huge here, Paul. Please, you need to work on this with me, help me figure out the missing pieces. Please.”
Darby didn’t say anything for about ten full seconds – so long that Krebosche thought maybe he’d hung up. But then: “Krebosche… William, listen. I know it was tough when you lost Adelina. Is that the woman you mentioned? Is that who you think they killed? ’Cause when a mind is under as much stress as yours must have been, sometimes it can’t take the pressure, and it starts… inventing things that make sense. That make it easier to deal with. You know? Same goes for your sister. That was a stray bullet. Horrifying, yes, but random all the same. There’s always been gang activity in that area. To be honest, and I know you don’t want to hear it, but your uncle should have known better than to–”
Krebosche set his jaw. His eyes turned to hard black stones in his head as he cut Paul off. “This isn’t about Adelina. Or Marla. Not like that. Not how you think. I’m not fucking delusional. I’m not.”
Krebosche wanted to say more, but images of Adelina and Marla flooded his mind, making it hard to form words.
“OK, well, either way, William. We can’t run this story. There’s not nearly enough evidence or sources to–”
“I know!” Krebosche shouted, finally losing his temper. “That’s why I need you to fucking help me, you self-important son of a bitch!”
He knew as soon as the words were out of his mouth that the conversation was over. But it turned out that more was over than just the conversation.
“That’s it, Krebosche,” Darby said, his voice a hard, cold rock. “We’re done. Don’t call me anymore. I won’t help you. Not now. Not ever.”
Dial tone.
* * *
Krebosche furiously packed a duffle bag, just cramming things in – his notes, toiletries, clothes, a gun – thinking, Fuck Darby. I’ll get Palermo, and expose everything myself. He knew it was foolhardy and would likely end horribly for him, but he wasn’t sure how much he cared anymore.
He would go to a motel near the warehouse, formulate a plan there. Now that he knew he was entirely on his own, that no one (who wasn’t already dead) would take him seriously, a them or me mentality slowly started taking shape in his head. Once it had fully taken root, his direction would be clear.
E L E V E N
I’ll cut his throat while he sleeps.
The snow had let up a little, but not very much, when Krebosche pulled into the Knight’s Inn motel. It was a bit of a shithole, but it was the closest motel to the warehouse. Even though he’d been in the area only hours before, he needed to consult his notes on its location, and navigate toward it as though for the first time.
When the blood starts flowing, he thought, sti
ll amped up from his conversation with Darby, I’ll tell him why I’m killing him, and those will be the last words he ever hears.
Then another voice in his head: Oh, yes, you’re such a badass. Sending your uncle, and someone who actually liked you – as much as anyone can like you, that is – to do your dirty work. You realize those people are both dead because of you. They died horribly while you watched from afar with your ridiculous fucking binoculars plastered to your face. Did part of you hope that would happen so you could finally be rid of everyone who cared about you even a little bit? ’Cause with them gone – and ties now broken with Paul Darby at the newspaper, as well – now you can be the hero. Man of the hour.
Krebosche tried to ignore this other voice, but it persisted.
Maybe you want to die. Maybe you’re sick of dealing with this level of loss, and this is the way out. Just barrel in, guns figuratively blazing like a moron. Is that it, dummy? Is that what you really want? For all this death to be for nothing?
Krebosche closed his eyes tightly, wishing the other voice away. No, he thought, that’s not what I want. That’s not what I want at all.
He felt his pulse slow, his heart stop pounding, his mind clear a little.
But as calm as he became, he still felt deeply that he needed to see Palermo die. Kendul, too, if at all possible, though that was secondary. One of the two was enough, and was likely all he could hope for. He didn’t give a flying fuck if the Inferne Cutis was exposed. Couldn’t give a rat’s ass if the mystery was ever solved – for him or anyone else. Palermo would die. Once that was done, he wouldn’t care what happened to himself. His goal would be achieved.
He paid cash for his room, keyed the door, chucked his duffle on the bed, and immediately headed for the shower. Fifteen minutes later, he felt as though the water had swept the cobwebs from his head. A plan formed in his mind. He saw it step by step, was certain it would work. And after, while Palermo’s body cooled in a puddle of his own blood, maybe Krebosche would run, maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d just stand there, staring at the body, hoping that wherever Adelina and Marla were – if they were anywhere at all – they could see what he’d done for them. See what they’d meant to him. What he was willing to do to make things right again. As right as they could be, anyway.
