The StoneCutter (S. Lasher & Associates)

by Scott Blade

  "Shane, tell the Board about your relationship with Det. Sun Good," Terrance asked.

  I winced a little. I knew she would be our downfall.

  "Det. Sun Good is an old friend. We used to be romantically linked, but no more. That is all that there is to tell. Now, she makes false accusations, because she is frustrated that she can't find the real StoneCutter.

  "Everyone at the MPD is frustrated. They keep accusing the wrong men of murder. Certainly that bothers them. It has to. It is embarrassing," Shane said.

  "Very well, Shane. Just one last question," Terrance said.

  "Ok," Shane responded.

  "Our office has done an internal investigation. We were hoping to help the MPD on our own and save face. Here is the thing: when my office tried to locate past clients of yours, we found none."

  Terrance was getting too close to us. Did I have to kill him too?

  "Mr. Graves, I will tell you that looking into the clients at my office won't tell you anything. I'm sure that if you looked into the clients at other locations, you will find that many clients who have beat murder charges disappear. They move away. They change their names. They go into hiding.

  "I do acknowledge that it is strange that you can't find many of the ones from my office, but that is not unthinkable or very unusual. At least it is not for D.C.," Shane said. He was good at defense. That was why we complimented each other so well. I was good at offense.

  "Ok, Shane. The Board is going to take some time now and talk. I want you to exit the room. Tina is waiting in the hall. She will escort you into my office where you can make yourself comfortable," Terrance said.

  Shane stood up from the table. We walked out into the hall and found Tina waiting just as Terrance had said.

  How long was this going to take? I wondered. Every second that we spent here trying to save Shane's future took us further and further down the road, and distracted us from finding the StoneCutter. His trail grew colder and colder.

  Tina walked Shane down the winding corridor again, and we ended up inside of Terrance's large corner office.

  "Mr. Graves wants you to wait here. He will come and get you whenever they are done," she said and she left us.

  We had moved from the gates of hell into the magnificent office of the Gods—Mt. Olympus.

  Floor to ceiling windows covered it. The only walls in the whole room were made of a dark oak wood. The floors were brick, giving the room a majestic, palace-like feel. This was not the office of a mere lawyer. It was the office of a titan.

  Now, I understood why Shane wanted to make partner so badly. It had its perks. We already made good money. And Shane provided us with a formidable lair for our bloody deeds, but the kind of status and wealth that Terrance Graves carried would have afforded us tremendous power.

  |||||

  The meeting with the partners did not go well for Shane. I have no feelings only impulses, urges and bloodlust, but I felt concerned for him. He worked hard for years in order to provide an optimal life for us. His hard work allowed me to carry out my homicidal tendencies without worry. He worked hard so that I could exist in his head. In many ways, he protected me as much as I protected him.

  Shane marveled at Terrance's corner office. It allured him. What Shane did not know was that the home that I created in his head was similar. I had a penthouse with a prime corner office. The inside of Shane's skull provided me with the perfect access to his thoughts and emotions. I could control my vessel with the precision of a fighter pilot.

  Shane gazed out of the two-story window. Even though Central Park was blocks away, we could see it perfectly. Our view from this office was flawless.

  We watched as college kids played ultimate Frisbee, couples walked their dogs, and bums panhandled. They were sheep. All the while they remained unaware that they were watched by a hungry, bloodthirsty wolf.

  Shane looked over at an enormous box-shaped desk––Terrance's desk. It was constructed of a thick cherry wood with brass handles and knobs.

  Shane sat in his Godfather's chair, imagining the day that we would follow in Terrance's footsteps and take over the firm that his Godfather built, that his Father built.

  First, we had to get through the Partner's inquisition.

  Shane looked out across the office. He fantasized about running this firm. After all, it was his Father's firm for over a decade. We didn't know our Father, but Shane always felt a deep longing to fill his shoes, to make him proud.

  As Shane imagined our future, he looked up and noticed something that we had never noticed before. Terrance had us here many times, but we never noticed the loft. It was neatly nestled above the office. It jetted out towards the large windows.

  I wondered how Terrance got up there. Shane looked around for a staircase or a ladder. Then we saw it. In the back corner of his office, just beyond the massive bookshelf, there was an elevator. Someone had painted over the elevator to blend it into the wall. So it was nearly hidden.

  Shane rose from the desk and approached the elevator. We rode the lift to the loft.

  The loft was half the size of the office below. The first thing that we saw was more bookshelves, high ones. The shelves were filled with old books, many of which were out of print. Their spines glistened as if they were dusted often and with great care.

  Shane twisted through the small maze of stacks and entered a new room. Paintings littered the walls. Interested in them, Shane moved closer to the largest one. Gold and red trim decorated the frame. It stuck out to us as if a spotlight shone down on it from heaven. I, however, preferred the fiery lights of hell.

  The paintings were abstract. As we neared them, Shane and I saw that they were not paintings at all. They looked more like detailed drawings like rubbings or tracings over foreign textures.

  Neither of us ever knew or suspected that Terrance created art in his spare time. Everyman needed a hobby. Shane's was to kill killers using their own methods of murder. Terrance created rubbings.

  We tried to read one to figure out what it was an etching of, but then we noticed something in the middle of the room.

  Lying across a heavy table was a large box-shaped object that was covered by an ivory white sheet. Portions of the sheet flowed from a breeze that suddenly engulfed the loft. The breeze casted ripples across the sheet like ripples in the water.

  Shane felt the cold breath of my curiosity blowing through his head.

  He became curious. It must have been a sculpture that Terrance was working on or perhaps he sanding a kayak for one of his weekend retreats. We approached it. Shane reached out to pull the sheet and uncover the mysterious object.

  "Shane? What are you doing up here?" a voice said from behind us. I must have been so curious that I dropped my guard. It was rare for someone to sneak up on me. I hadn't even felt his presence. Instead, I felt the unfamiliar feeling of being startled.

  Shane whipped around to see Terrance standing calmly with one of his hands in his coat pocket.

  "Sorry Terrance. I didn't mean to snoop around. I just never noticed this loft before," Shane said. My curiosity retracted so that I could let Shane take over. Dealing with Terrance was really more of his thing. I had no emotional attachment to anyone. Shane loved his Godfather, our savior.

  "Shane, this is my private art studio," Terrance said. He began to look around the room at his creations. "Up here I can be alone so I can sculpt and paint. No one bothers me. No more clients, lawyers, judges, or associates.

  "Up here I don't have to be responsible for running a multimillion dollar firm."

  "Sorry Terrance. I never considered how stressful your position must be. I'm so used to looking up to you that I just always assumed you were made of stone," Shane said.

  "Every man has his vices. I am no different. I just keep my vices secret unlike you. Lately, your habits seem to be spilling out into the news and onto the front pages of the newspapers."

  "I am sorry, Terrance. I'm glad that you invited me to come today. That was
risky of you to warn me about the Partners' meeting," Shane said. It was all so heartwarming to sit in Shane's skull and listen to his tender exchanges with our Godfather.

  I felt sickened.

  "Shane, did you want to see my latest work of art? It is unfinished, but I suppose you can look at it," Terrance said, standing over the object underneath the long, flowing white sheet.

  "No, Terrance. I didn't mean to pry. I understand a thing or two about keeping secrets. Your art is your private business. I apologize," Shane said against my wishes. I wanted to see the old man's precious hobby.

  "Very well, Shane, let's return to my office," Terrance said.

  He led Shane back down to the floor below. Terrance sat down at his desk and looked over at us.

  "Terrance, just be straight with me. What did they decide?" Shane asked. He plopped down into the chair in front of Terrance's massive desk.

  "Shane, the board is not pleased with your behavior of late. I can't say that I don't share their concerns. You should have never done the Vanity Fair issue. It was scandalous and too controversial. We are a prestigious, conservative firm. But that doesn't really matter. What does matter is that you have brought unnecessary attention to our firm and our interests.

  "If you are hiding former clients like the police and press are insinuating, then you had better come clean about it," Terrance said, sternly, fatherly.

  "Terrance, I have no idea where our old clients have gone. I'm not hiding anyone," Shane said, convincingly. "I swear to you that I am not aiding any of my former clients in remaining anonymous. If I knew where they were I would inform the police."

  We were not lying. We were not hiding them. Our furnace hid them.

  "Shane, you had better not be lying. If you know anything at all about Gillard Shutter, you had better cooperate with the MPD," Terrance warned. He furrowed his eyebrows and gazed deeply into Shane's eyes. This was the second time that I ever thought that he was going to see me hiding behind Shane's eyes, staring back at him.

  "I will cooperate fully," Shane said. "As I have been."

  "One more thing, the Partners have decided to delay any decisions about your future here until after the Kline case is over," Terrance said. "As it turns out, Eline Kline has insisted that you remain her son's defender. And she carries a tremendous amount of weight with not only this firm, but many other potential clients. So the Partners feel that it is in our best interest to keep you on as the lead attorney in the StoneCutter case. But Shane, that is only temporary. You need to produce some results on this StoneCutter thing. And fast."

  "Yes, Terrance," Shane said. The two men stood up and shook hands. I sensed that Shane was disappointed as if he had let down his own Father.

  I was responsible for Shane. I needed him focused, in control, and at peak performance. I didn't want him feeling guilt and pressure from anyone, especially Terrance Graves. It was hard enough of late dealing with the guilt that continued to leak into my side of his brain.

  Terrance's influence over our behavior could be detrimental to Shane's performance, not only in the courtroom, but in our extracurricular serial killer activities. So we had to make right with him, at least where Shane was concerned.

  Tina met Shane at the door to Terrance's office and escorted us out of the building.

  Tonight, Shane would catch a plane back to D.C. Tomorrow was another day. We had to find the StoneCutter. We had to kill him. But first we had to get the MPD and the nosey Det. Sun Good off our back.

  I hated trying to convince Shane that she would have to die, but in the end he would listen to me. He would do what I wanted. After all, I was at the reigns. I was the driver.

  7

  Enemies Close

  "You can discover what your enemy fears most by observing the means by which he tries to frighten you."

  ––Eric Hofer.

  |||||

  A men's fitness club called The Roosevelt Club was Washington D.C.'s oldest and most elite health club. For forty years, famous men frequented its lavish workout rooms. Shane was not sure which Roosevelt it was named after, but more than likely it was FDR. He was, ironically, the one of the two Roosevelts that was not athletic. He was also in a wheelchair. I personally liked Truman; he dropped the nuclear bomb, causing mass murder and destruction. I lusted for murder and destruction.

  Rumors circulated about the members of this elite club for decades. Everyone wanted to be a member. Every major politician desired admittance beyond the glass doors. It was a sign of stature to belong to it. Freshman Senators and Congressmen tried to solicit memberships, but the club was very strict on the members that they accepted. Generally, The Roosevelt only admitted around a dozen new members every month. And it was always a roster of who's who in D.C.

  The club was located off Constitution Avenue. It was not far out of our way. Most of D.C. was centrally located to us since we lived downtown. Most major monuments and important government buildings were within walking distance.

  Whenever Shane decided to go for a run outdoors, the White House was usually on our route.

  However, we would not be running out in public anytime soon. Too much unwanted attention focused on Shane to risk running into Det. Sun Good or a reporter. For the moment, Shane thought it best to avoid the detective at all costs. She caused trouble. Her snooping around our past clients, our past victims, almost cost Shane his position in the firm. Without Shane's position, I couldn't kill. I needed him to be successful. I needed him to be happy. In order for me to be satisfied, Shane must remain satisfied.

  The Roosevelt Club never allowed women to step foot beyond its doors, not in decades, not since the doors first opened. In its forty years not even a cleaning lady stepped foot inside it.

  As Shane worked out harder and harder, he began to count out loud the number of crunches that he executed.

  "2975. 2976. 2977."

  My view was obstructed every time that he contorted back to the starting position. With every rep he came back up and I saw the rest of the gym through his eyes. With every rep that he went down, I saw nothing but the ceiling.

  I saw the other men working out throughout the gym. Some lifted heavy weights. Some did pull ups. Some stared at themselves in the wall-length mirrors. I saw men running on the treadmills. I saw them adjusting the small T.V. monitors embedded in the control console of their machines.

  Shane's heart raced at a comfortable pace. Every muscle in his stomach burned. His form never faltered, never dwindled. He performed each and every crunch perfectly. His breathing maintained the correct rhythm.

  I loved the blood pumping through his body. His vessels rushed like an angry tidal wave of blood, breaking for the shoreline of a nearby city. I wanted to grab my rowboat and ride the tide.

  "2985."

  Suddenly, as Shane rose up I saw a familiar figure storming in like the Greeks barreling through the large gates of Troy. The figure marched past the men working out. She moved through two staff members that attempted to halt her.

  Shane stopped his crunches when he heard the staff shouting.

  "You can't be in here!" one young, muscly staff member said.

  "Get your damn hands off me!" the woman demanded.

  Her voice resonated in Shane's ears, echoing throughout the inside of his skull. My home was flooded with the sound of her voice as if a supersonic bomb went off near my bedroom.

  Det. Sun Good stopped in front of Shane's sweaty, shirtless body.

  "You are an asshole!" she said.

  Sun Good's stature was small, but she was toned. She stood close to Shane as he huffed from a hard morning workout. She knelt down and poked her finger in his chest.

  "Sun—" Shane began.

  "Don't interrupt me. You are an asshole! You filed a harassment compliant with my department?"

  "Sun, this is not the appropriate place," Shane said.

  I smirked behind his eyes. Filing the complaint was my idea. I assured Shane that it was the right move to make. Being a lawy
er, he came up with the idea of calling Sun's commanding officer and threatening to sue the MPD for libel. We couldn't prove that Det. Sun Good tipped The Post about our missing clients, but we could prove that she dated Shane. That fact alone would make it plausible that she was harassing him.

  I could see his twisted, legal mind at work, literally.

  When speaking to her commander, Shane painted the picture that Sun Good was a jealous ex-girlfriend. We dumped her, so she became obsessed with Shane. It all started harmlessly until she manufactured this story that he was obstructing justice, hiding his ex-clients from her investigation, and so on.

  Shane's legal mind impressed my savage one.

  "You think that you can use your powerful friends and lawyer tactics to pull me off of you? You are mistaken. Now, I am really going to look at you closely. You and your friends," she threatened. The wrinkles above her head furrowed and jetted out towards Shane.

  I thought that Asian women didn't get wrinkles. We must have really pissed her off.

  "Sun, you have to let it go. I'm not interested in dating you anymore," Shane said, placating to the small crowd that gathered behind her—witnesses.

  "I'll be everywhere. You won't be able to take a shit without me knowing it!" Sun Good said. Her fake breasts heaved back and forth as she panted. Her anger had gotten the best of her.

  Shane watched closely as Sun Good stormed out of The Roosevelt Club. The glass double doors swung behind her. The staff followed her out. The spectators returned to their workouts.

  Shane returned his gaze to the mirror. Then he resumed his workout.

  "2986. 2987. 2988."

  |||||

  Det. Sun Good watched us for days. She followed Shane everywhere. She never approached us, but she trailed close behind.

  Shane thought it best to keep up the charade of a normal life. So that night, we went out with friends to a posh D.C. restaurant called Chefs of the Capital. It was a popular place and always busy. The room was packed with famous politicians and greedy lobbyists. They chomped at the heels of the powerful Congressmen like starving pit bulls clutching at table scraps.