“Orson Magner,” she reads.
“He’s the best PI in Los Angeles County. We sure appreciate your help.”
“Anything. Of course I’m happy to help.” She looks at the letter filled with her ex-husband’s last words to her. “Do you need to keep that?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. I was going to burn it.” She stands and slings her Prada over her shoulder. “I’ll call you every day with updates.”
Ortiz and Quatro shake her hand goodbye, seeing the weight of guilt on this woman’s shoulders. Quatro gives her two years—or enough time to find the money—before patrol will find her dead in her home. She predicts a lethal cocktail of sleeping pills and whiskey. And Quatro’s not wrong.
2:55 PM Spruce-Musa Hospital
Detectives Red Feather and Günn walk into the room of the woman provisionally IDed by other survivors as Una O’Doole, the possible generator of the alleged vulval ooze that killed Charles Wallace Crane. The freckled redhead huddles on her bed, knees pulled up to her chest, rocking back and forth. Red Feather and Günn exchange a concerned glance.
The woman looks up. “Is my mommy here yet?” Her voice is that of a child, though her appearance indicates a twenty-something.
This is another Oh shit moment.
“Your mommy?” Red Feather asks.
She nods, her eyes wide, a lost kid. “I don’t know why she left me here alone. I’m never apposed to be alone. Except with—” She breaks and tucks her head into herself.
“Amnesia?” Günn whispers. “Fuck.”
“Regression.” Red Feather replies. “Double fuck.”
Una cries quietly into her lap.
“Let’s do our best. Come on.” Red Feather pulls up a chair and Günn sets up the camera.
“Can you tell me your name, miss?” Red Feather’s voice is soft and soothing.
“I won’t say anything without my mommy!” Una insists, hitting the bed.
Red Feather takes out his badge and hands it to Una, who marvels at the sparkly. “I’m with the police. My name is Detective Red Feather and this is Detective Günn. We need your help to find your mom. Can you help us?”
Una considers it, weighing options as only a child can. “Okay, then. But only because you’re a policeman and policemen are the only strangers we’re allowed to talk to.”
“Very good. Can you tell us your name?”
“My name is Una O’Doole. I can spell it too.” Pride gleams on her face.
“How old are you, Una?”
“I’m eight. It was my birthday last month. I got so many presents!”
“What did you get, Una?”
“Ummmmm,” Una giggles. “I don’t remember!” She giggles again.
Red Feather watches as Una chews on the skin around her thumbnail and spits out a piece she’s bit off. “Oops! Sorry!”
“Don’t worry about it. So, where do you live, Una?”
“In Burbank. Near the mall. But I’m not allowed to go there without adult supercision.”
“Una, do you know your phone number?”
Her face scrunches up. “I can’t remember!” Una opens her mouth as if to say something else, but clangs it shut. Ouch.
“What is it, Una? I’m police remember, I’m here to help you.” Red Feather points at his badge that rests on the bed between Una and his chair.
“He said he’d kill me if I told,” Una whispers, tears streaming down her face. She buries her face in her lap again.
“If you tell me I will personally make sure that he can’t come near you.”
“You promise?” Una’s eyes become slits. Trust don’t come easy.
“I promise,” Red Feather confirms.
“Swear?” Una has issues, even as an eight-year-old.
“Cross my heart and hope to die.” Red Feather runs his hand over his heart.
“Stick a needle in your eye.” Una nods, satisfied. “It was Father McManus. He hurt me. Bad! And I don’t want him to hurt me anymore!” Una sobs. “Mommy, I want my mommy! Where’s my mommy!”
Günn stands behind the camera, frozen. She knows she should comfort the girl—Una would likely feel more comfortable with a woman—but Günn can’t move. Her out-of-character exchange with Cherie Beauxden aside, she hates touching strangers, and likes kids even less. All that mucus and tears and emotion. This one’s no exception, even though physically she’s a grown woman.
Red Feather shifts closer to the girl but doesn’t touch. “Una, we’ll find your mom right away. Can you tell me where Father McManus is?”
“He’s at the church. Our Lady of Saving Grace. He told me if I ever told what he did I couldn’t go to heaven.” Una’s eyes implore Red Feather, “Can I still go to heaven?”
“Of course you will, Una, and especially because you will help us make sure he never does this to anyone again.”
Una still rocks back and forth. “Please don’t tell him I told. Oh, I should never have told! I should never have told! I should NEVER HAVE TOLD!” Each statement increases in volume until she is shouting at the top of her lungs. From between her legs a pink mass slithers out and makes its way toward the detective, ooze that expands exponentially in pulsing waves.
Una screams when she sees it.
Red Feather is glued in place, watching the blob grow, working its way toward him.
Oh my God, this is the thing that killed Crane, Red Feather thinks. It’s alive!
Red Feather backs away from the pink sludge, waist high, hungry menacing toward him. Una continues to scream.
Günn grabs a fire extinguisher and opens the stream, even though she knows she’s hallucinating. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.
Nurse Jonelle rushes in and adds to the screaming. “What in the hell IS that!” The blob changes direction and lunges toward Jonelle with its last gasp. The foam covers the pink mass, now the size of a Great Dane, coating it. The thing makes a terrible sound, a scream underwater. It dissipates, leaving behind only traces of the foam and a slimy trail leading back to Una.
Una’s voice is going hoarse. She has not stopped shouting. Nurse Jonelle administers a sedative. The girl quiets and her eyes relax. “I want my mommy,” she says and passes out.
“Mary, mother of God.” Günn says. No, no, no. I didn’t just see that. I didn’t just see that.
“Amen, sister,” Nurse Jonelle pants. “I saw that with the eyes that the Good Lord gave me and I’m starting to think I’m plumb crazy.”
Günn begins shaking her head. No. No. No. No.
Red Feather fills the nurse in on what Una told them before the appearance of the blob. Nurse Jonelle leaves to call Psych for a doc’s consult.
“Well, say hello to Charles Wallace Crane’s killer,” Red Feather declares, heart pounding as he looks at the now-sleeping redhead.
“This isn’t happening.” Günn’s eyes are wide and unfocused. She blinks and gets a better grip. No. No. No.
“Okay. The blob aside,” Red Feather says pushing his frazzled hair back into place while trying to get a handle, “let’s guess she’s 22, this happened when she was 8, what you think are the chances that pervert is still a priest raping children?” Pedophiles. Red Feather feels a different kind of sick come over him. The angry kind.
Günn’s eyes come into focus with the task at hand, shaking off the disbelief. “I’ll call the station. Get someone to check out Father McManus. You call chief and fill him in. I don’t have the words to describe any of this without sounding like a fucking loon,” Günn says.
“Oh and I do?” What is her problem?
Günn ignores him. “I’ll call forensics myself. I want to know what that shit is.” She leaves the room, finding it hard to breathe as her
heart skips beats and panic knocks at her brain’s door, her denial from earlier in the day returning in full force and taking over. The Cherie Beauxden respite dissipates in full.
Red Feather sighs and dials Assistant Chief Ortiz.
“Sir, we appear to have IDed the woman who killed Charles Wallace Crane.” Red Feather recounts the events, ever grateful for the technology that allowed the insanity to be caught on tape.
Una O’Doole, aka Wake
Something’s not right with you. Staring in the mirror, you don’t look like yourself. Who’s this old person? She’s pretty, but can’t be you. You’re eight, you just had your birthday. But why can’t you remember your presents? You always remember your presents. Not like your stupid cousin Paulie who forgets five minutes after he opens them all. Idiot. Maybe that’s what happens when you have too much money, like your Aunt Greta and Uncle Brad. They have a pool, they have a hot tub, they even have a movie theater in their basement! You love watching movies there, but Paulie won’t ever let you watch the movies you want. No Disney, no princesses. Only war movies and movies where women take their clothes off. You don’t like those at all. You leave the room and whisper to mom and dad, but they don’t listen. They never listen to you. Ever.
A tear dribbles down your cheek. Why don’t they ever listen? You never lie. It tastes bad, like sour milk. Lying makes your stomach hurt. Even though He told you to lie about what he does to you. You still told the truth and nobody believed you. Just like He said. And so He kept doing it.
Now, you’re twelve. You just got your period. It’s been years and years He’s been hurting you. It’s confusing because you hate it when He hurts you, but he’s been doing it for so long sometimes it feels good. How can it feel good? It’s disgusting! It’s a sin! Even though He forgives you afterward. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I absolve you, Una, of these sins of the flesh. All forgiven in the eyes of the Lord, He says. You come home and cut yourself with daddy’s razor. On the thighs where nobody will see but him. And He doesn’t care, so long as He can put His thing, His fingers, His cross, the candles, wherever He wants, faster until He makes that sound that’s like throwing up.
Your mother tells Him you got your period, you’re a woman now. He looks at you differently. He doesn’t call you for The Special Time anymore. It’s what you’ve wanted for years, for Him to leave you alone, but it hurts your feelings. You see Him with the new girl in the parish. She looks just like you when He first started. You spy. He’s doing it to her now. You rush in the room, screaming. You are so angry with Him! He took things from you, He’s taking them from her! He’s the monster! It’s Him! Him!
From between your legs a pink blob comes out. It grows, it grows, feeding on your rage. You feel it’s connected with you. It is you. Your power. You’re taking it back from Him. The little girl screams and runs from the room. He looks scared as the ooze grows so fast. It jumps on his face, muffling his screams. It devours him, leaving only a trail of slime. The pink stuff goes small and comes back to you, reattaching between your legs.
Now it’s your parents’ turn. Nobody who betrays you will ever live to tell the tale. Never again.
3:15 PM LAPD Hollywood Headquarters
Assistant Chief Gabriel Ortiz hangs up the phone on what was easily the most bizarre conversation he’s ever had in his life, aside from a couple choice ones courtesy of today. Quatro looks up from a stack of email printouts—the entire opus of the Bad Vibe Kids’ email correspondence—and raises an eyebrow.
“That sounded interesting,” Quatro says.
Ortiz rubs his brow. “You remember those accounts from survivors about how some kind of pink ooze ‘ate’ Charles Wallace Crane?”
Quatro nods, a strand of her curly hair falling into her face. She tucks it back behind her ear. “Vulval, so the survivors said.”
Ortiz’s discomfort grows legs and walks.
“Red Feather and Günn just interviewed the woman to whom said ooze apparently belongs.” Ortiz waits for her reaction. Disappointed again.
“Were they hurt?” Quatro is a stone cold fox.
“You don’t find anything strange about all this?” Ortiz is frustrated.
“Of course. But the empirical evidence isn’t lying so we have to adjust our own realities, no?”
Ortiz can’t argue. “Touché.”
“So,” Quatro repeats, “were they hurt?”
“No, but almost. The girl’s got some kind of regressive amnesia, thinks she’s eight years old. Told them her priest was molesting her, got agitated and out the blob came. Went after Red Feather. They neutralized it, but damn if that isn’t the damndest thing…” Ortiz has no idea how he’ll be able to build a case around this.
“What about the priest?”
“Desk cops are making some calls.”
Quatro looks back to the emails and her interrogation prep. “I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
“Why do you say that?”
She says nothing and buries herself back into the documents.
Chief Ortiz receives a call from dispatch: Father McManus, alleged pedophile, disappeared fourteen years ago, never to be heard of again. Also disappeared were Una O’Doole’s mother and father: She’s been living with her aunt and uncle since she was thirteen.
3:25 PM Spruce-Musa Hospital
Linda Kang lies in her hospital bed, acid reflux burning its way up and down her throat. She burps, hoping it will relieve the gurgling in her tummy, but it does nothing. She can’t remember who she is, to boot. Amnesia is like a word on the tip of your tongue, except the word is you. Linda feels empty, save for the bile rising in her gullet. Her stomach aches. The burps taste of the bland chicken Kiev she never should have tried given its rubbery texture and over-boiled color. The green Jell-O reminded her of One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest, and did nothing to settle her stomach. She presses the call button, hoping the nurse can help.
“What can I do for you, honey,” Nurse Underwood croons in a sickly saccharine voice that makes Linda shudder. And burp.
“I’ve got a horrible stomachache and—” Bile rises in her gorge. Linda swallows it down, grimacing. “I’m having the worse acid reflux.” Linda wants to vomit from the horrible taste in her mouth.
“Let me go get you some Pepto-Bismol.” Nurse Underwood watches Linda stifle another burp, her face souring as the material settles. “And maybe a sucker or two to get that taste out of your mouth?”
Linda nods, grateful, but creeped out by a spark of cruelty she sees behind the nurse’s eyes.
Nurse Underwood leaves the room, out to the stairwell to catch a quick smoke and think about how much pain the girl is in, enjoying every second. Each breath of smoke in and out brings her more and more pleasure. She reminisces.
The first time Nurse Urzula Underwood hurt a patient on purpose was an old lady, ninety-something, who had lost her speech. Her motor coordination was shot and she had no way to communicate other than crying. Which she did around the clock. Her paper skin showed every vein, but Urzula would prick her again and again with the IV, the flesh instantly bruising and sometimes bleeding. Urzula got a reprimand for carelessness, but nobody ever suspected it was far from an accident. That Urzula would jab the needle in and watch the old lady’s face as it contorted in pain, wailing, tears flowing from eyes so pale every blood vessel was visible. Pathetic old creature. She died a few days later, stroke in her sleep. What Urzula never knew was that the old lady had a night terror about the nurse, which caused the massive embolism that graciously took her before Urzula could get to her real plan. Hundreds of patients, and counting.
In her room, Linda has a bad feeling. Worse than the acid crawling up her throat. Something about the nurse makes Linda’s stomach churn even harder, an ocean storm in the middle of her system. The pain and cramping in her esophagus intensifies. Where’s th
e damn nurse, Linda thinks. The goddamn station is right there! She can see it from her bed.
Nurse Underwood takes her time and lights another smoke as Linda’s frustration mounts.
Nurse Underwood saunters back into the room, reeking of cigarette smoke. The smell makes Linda gag. Oh crap, this is not gonna stay down. Linda lurches out of bed, grabbing for the myriad wires around her and tries to make it to the bathroom. Nurse Urzula pretends to help.
“I’m gonna hurl!” And before Linda can look away from the nurse’s cold smiling eyes, throw up she does.
The stream of vomit, dyed green from the Jell-O, lands down the front of Nurse Urzula’s uniform, coating it and her bare arms. The nurse begins to scream as the acid from Linda’s belly burns and sizzles her skin, red welts rising and splitting open. Nurse Urzula Underwood writhes in pain, collapsing to the floor as her skin bubbles and boils off. The screams from both Linda and Urzula draw more nurses, who add to the fray as the skin on Nurse Urzula’s arms gives way to bone. Linda collapses, her burps on hiatus, and all of a sudden remembers who she is.
3:35 PM The Roswell Institute
In the bowels of the bowels of the underground facility where several of the more dangerous hybrids are kept captive, Tiburona, the shark girl, feigns eagerly awaiting her lunch. Kept in one of The Institute’s typical cages, a break-proof plastic/glass alloy that affords neither her nor any of her floormates even an iota of privacy, save for the Japanese shoji screen that partitions off the corner with the sink, overhead shower, and toilet. Not that she has any direct neighbors. She’s been, shall we say, unsociable since she left the lab.
Tiburona sniffs. Food is on its way. Steak. Prime rib. Poison. She is convinced They have been poisoning her food. Something to make her docile, malleable. Something to make her thinking cloudy. She’s sure of it. Hasn’t eaten in two weeks. Even though she’s fucking starving, turning her back to the camera, shoving the food down her pants and flushing it down the toilet after an appropriate amount of time.
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