Forever Hunger

by David Salkin

  “Oh my God,” Sara said quietly. “You really

  are trying to impress me,” she said as she nudged his ribs. “But unless you called weeks ago, we’ll never get in. Kazu is the best sushi place in the city. Well, from what I’m told anyway.”

  “So you haven’t been here before?” he asked. The average price per person was easily three hundred dollars. He was guessing “no”.

  “Um, no. I’ve heard lots a great things about Kazu, the sushi chef, but I’ve never actually been here.”

  “I am told he is one of the best in New York. Perhaps anywhere,” he said, looking deeply into her blue-green eyes. He kept walking, and ignored the line as he entered the tiny restaurant. He had stopped by earlier, handed the hostess four hundred dollars, and said he and a date would need a table for two in the back corner. She had immediately put him on the guest list. The young Japanese girl spotted him as he re-entered, this time with his date, and bowed, then showed him to his table in the back of the long narrow restaurant.

  Sara was amazed. The floors were tile and wood, and every table and chair was handmade from fine woods. Fresh flowers and a waterfall decorated the dimly lit restaurant. Several movie stars and New York politicians sat in small booths or at the long sushi bar in front of Kazu and his assistants. The hostess seated them in the rear booth, facing a waterfall built into the marble wall across from them. It was quiet and absolutely beautiful.

  “I can’t believe you are taking me here!” she whispered to him from across the booth. “We could skip the show and stay here all night!” she said with a huge grin. She realized what she said may have not had the intended complimentary result, and added, “But of course I am excited to see the show—I just meant, this place is amazing!”

  He smiled, and could feel her excitement. She was an interesting woman. So alive. It was contagious, really. He inhaled her from across the table. While the humans would have smelled sandalwood and flowers, he could smell fish oil, and did not particularly like it. The hint of sandalwood reminded him of the woods in Jena, but the fish odors ruined the memory. He concentrated on Sara’s perfume, which he found delightful. It mixed with her skin chemistry and made the hair on his arms tingle. He slid his tongue across his teeth and tasted her scent, his eyes fluttering. She watched him, curiously.

  “Starving?” she asked him.

  He smiled, wondering how delicious she would taste, but fought hard against those images. He was still quite full from the previous feeding, and those strong men had his heart pumping hard and his own flesh warm to the touch. “Starving? No. But I can always eat something delicious,” he said quietly, trying not to stare at the blood pumping in her carotid artery.

  Sarah blushed.

  The waitress approached them and bowed, and Adam shocked Sara by speaking a few words in Japanese to her. They conversed quickly; she bowed again, and walked away.

  “You speak Japanese?” she asked, quite impressed.

  “Only a bit. I have traveled quite extensively, and always found languages to be very interesting. I speak a little bit of several. You?”

  “I’m pretty good with English,” she joked. “Actually, I am trying to learn a little Spanish, but don’t put enough time into it.”

  Adam rattled off some Spanish to her, and it was Castilian Spanish from Spain, not Mexico. His accent was perfect, and it sounded beautiful to Sara. “Wow, that is so different from what I hear around here,” she replied softly.

  “I learned my Spanish in Spain,” he explained. “Like British English versus American English. A bit more proper perhaps?”

  “It’s beautiful. You are a very interesting man, Adam Priest,” she said with a smile. “What other languages do you speak?” She leaned closer to him as she spoke across the table, and her body language wasn’t lost on Adam.

  “Well, I am not fluent in most of these, but I speak English, Spanish, French, German, Portuguese, Old Prussian, and a bit of Japanese, Mandarin, and Russian.”

  Sara sat back, amazed. “That is so cool. I wish I could speak languages like that. I am very impressed, Mr. Priest,” she said with a smile. “Have you traveled a lot, then?”

  “Quite a bit, actually. What about you? I know nothing about you…”

  “There isn’t nearly as much to tell about me. I want to hear all about you!” she said, and this time took his hand in hers. “You, sir, are the most interesting man I have met, maybe, ever.”

  Adam smiled at her. He really did feel something for this woman. Perhaps it was because she was so obviously drawn to him, or perhaps because she was in fact a beautiful woman with some intelligence. Or maybe it was simply that he really wanted to tear her chest open and eat her heart while it still beat. In any event, he enjoyed being around her and feeling her energy.

  “Enough about me…” he said, as the waitress arrived carrying a large carafe of hot sake and two small cups. She placed them on the table, and picked it up to pour, but Adam spoke to her in Japanese, and she bowed and left. “Allow me,” he said, and he picked up the carafe and poured one for her. He then lifted the carafe to his own cup, and faked filling it. The tiny ceramic cups were opaque, and she could not tell that his was empty. “Compai,” he toasted in Japanese, and touched her cup. She toasted him back and drank her sake, and he quickly refilled hers while again faking his own. He knew that when humans were pleasantly plied with alcohol, their guard was down and they were much less observant. The more she drank, the less she would notice about his eating habits.

  They chatted for a while, enjoying each other’s company, and then the waitress returned with a large tray of beautifully arranged fish. Tuna, yellowtail, salmon and flying fish roe, Japanese Snapper, and several other specialties were arranged “just so” by the master chef. Adam and the waitress spoke Japanese for a moment, and she smiled and thanked him before she left.

  Sara poured soy sauce into her tiny soy plate and mixed wasabi into it with her chopsticks. She picked up some wasabi and went to place it in Adam’s dish, and he cringed.

  “No! Thank you,” he said as calmly as he could. The smell of the hot horseradish was repugnant, and the smell of the salty soy sauce was overpowering. He felt slightly ill, but faked a smile. “I prefer the delicate nature of the fish without any sauce. I think I am a bit allergic to the wasabi,” he added.

  She smiled and shrugged, and picked up a piece of sushi. “This looks amazing. Thank you so much for bringing me here, Adam.”

  Adam reached for a piece of tuna sashimi, and smiled as he placed it in his mouth, the first dead meal he had eaten in decades, other than trying it earlier in the day to experiment with it. As the fatty tuna dissolved on his tongue, he closed his eyes and pretended it was Sara’s liver, then reopened his eyes to watch her eat her own fish with great enjoyment. He continued to push the sake on her until she was quite pleasantly “buzzed”.

  Dinner was a smash success, and by the time they left, she was very physical with her date, her arm around him as they walked down the street. She pulled him close on the street and kissed him on the mouth, thanking him for the best sushi dinner she had ever experienced in her life. He enjoyed the kiss, fighting back the urge to devour her, and instead smelled her hair and perfume and skin and wondering what she would look like naked. Such a human thought.

  They walked together to the theatre, where they sat orchestra center to see “Phantom”, an appropriate show for such an odd couple.

  Twenty-One

  VWX

  Taskforce

  It was Friday night, and the taskforce had ordered in a bunch of pizzas and sodas and decided to stay late and brainstorm together over piles of new information they had received from the Feds, the State Police, and NYPD precincts all over the city. Tim picked up the folder that Pat Ammiano had given him from the anthropology professor and called over to Roy.

  “Hey—Roy, you just got volunteered. Come on, we’re taking a ride uptown.”

  “Whatcha got?” he asked.

  Tim ma
de a face. “If I tell you, you won’t come.” He replied, and got up to leave.

  “It ain’t another fucked up crime scene, is it?” he asked.

  • 123 •

  “Nope. Just a fucked up person. Come on.” The two of them rode the elevator downstairs and took Captain Rosetto’s unmarked car uptown into a part of the city that was almost completely black, filled with immigrants from all over the Caribbean. Haitians, Jamaicans, Dominicans, you name the island—it was represented in the neighborhood. They pulled up in front of a large church, painted in bright colors reminiscent of their Caribbean homes. The two men got out and walked up the stairs to the old church. It was late on a Friday, and the church was almost empty, except for a few priests in bright robes. Candles burned all over the church, and small statues of saints unknown to white churchgoers had many candles lit in their honor. They walked down the aisle and approached one of the priests.

  “Excuse me, father,” said Tim quietly. “I am looking for Father Eduardo.”

  The man looked at Tim, eyeing the large white man suspiciously before speaking.

  “You are police?” he asked.

  “Yes,” he said, and flipped his badge. “I came for some help. I was told Father Eduardo might be able to answer some questions pertaining to a case we are working on.”

  “Conversations between priests and their parishioners are confidential…” he began.

  “No, no—it’s nothing like that. I just need some help. I think he can shed a little light on something, that’s all.”

  The priest stood for a moment, sizing them both up, and then told them to follow him to a small room in the back of the altar. They entered the office and found a very old, very bizarre looking dwarf sitting on a leather couch reading from an ancient leather book. Father Eduardo was under four feet tall, with white hair and a white beard that extended to his stomach. Seeing him wearing a bright African styled hat and robe, they felt like they had stepped into another country. The man slid off the couch and hopped to his feet. Even with his black, red and green leather cap, he was still only belt-high to the officers. Roy and Tim tried not to react to the man’s size or costume.

  “Hello Father Eduardo,” said Tim. “My name is Tim Rosetto. I’m a Detective Captain from the Sixth precinct and this is Sergeant Roy Ruiz from Midtown North. We’re working on something out of the ordinary, and we’ve been pointed in your direction. I was wondering if you might give us a little of your time?”

  Father Eduardo opened his arms dramatically, and although he was tiny in stature, he had a great presence. “I am always ready to help ‘dose who seek my council,” he said with a very heavy accent that was hard to place. He sounded Creole, maybe, his consonants hard on his tongue, and his voice deep and booming for such a tiny person. “Come and be seated wit’ me” he said, and he climbed back up on the coach. Tim and Roy found seats opposite him, and the other priest walked out and closed the door behind him.

  Father Eduardo folded his pudgy fingers in his lap, his robe a rich red, embroidered with gold thread and multicolored beads. “And tell me now, what brings you to me?”

  Tim cleared his throat. He had rehearsed this a dozen times in his head, and no matter how he said it, he sounded insane. He would not make eye contact with Roy for fear of being humiliated. “Well, Father Eduardo, this is going to sound very strange, I’m afraid. But we’ve come across something that is very difficult to explain. We are open to looking at anything that can give us some clues as to what it is we are looking for, and I was pointed to you by a professor of anthropology named Dr. Cook.”

  The old man smiled, showing a few gaps and gold teeth. “Ahh, yes. Doctor Cook is a good man. He and I have chatted many times over the years. He has an open mind and understands more about the cultures of the Islanders and Africans than most white men, no offense.”

  “None taken, Father. I’ll be blunt. We are working a murder investigation, and I need your word on total secrecy, okay?”

  He nodded and said, “Of course,” quietly.

  “We have been investigating a string of murders that appear to be connected, and appear to involve some sort of ritualized, um…well… cannibalism.”

  Father Eduardo did not react with any shock. “Continue…” he said.

  “Well, we are trying to put together some facts and common threads on many missing person cases and some bizarre homicides. The problem is, the attacker may, and I stress the word ‘may’, have been at this for a very long time. And the problem is, the murder weapon, well…” Tim searched for the words carefully and looked straight ahead, avoiding Roy’s face. “The murder weapon may be the killer’s teeth or maybe something he carries that looks like a claw. Honestly—it’s so bizarre, we are stuck. The professor had some very troubling legends about monsters and such that he was eager to share with us—urban legends and the like, but one of the things he showed us fit a bite model that our lab guys put together. According to Dr. Cook, we are supposed to show it to you.”

  The old man exhaled slowly. He looked deeply troubled. “So you t’ink you are tracking a monster now here in da’ city?”

  “No, no, no…I’m not saying that! I’m just saying that Dr. Cook said you might have some explanation for what we have been seeing. The killer has been, um, well, drinking blood and eating parts of his victims in some type of ritual. Any of this mean anything to you?”

  The dwarf slid down off the couch and walked across the room to a book shelf, where he pulled an old leather bound book almost as large as he was tall. “Mean anyt’ing to me?” He laughed, a deep booming laugh. “You t’ink dat monsters don’t live in ‘dis city because you an educated man. But ‘dis country two hundred years old. The legends of ‘dis country are borrowed from other countries that are thousands of years old. You t’ink monster stories are only to scare little children? You t’ink if it can’t be explained it can’t be real?” The priest placed the large book on his desk and stood on a chair to open the cover. “Let me see your bite model,” he said, sounding gravely serious.

  Tim reached into his overcoat and pulled a brown paper bag. “This is a lab reconstruction based on some bite marks we found on victims. It matches several victims. We have no idea what it is, but it is consistent, and something out there has teeth, or uses a weapon that looks like teeth, that matches this.” Tim pulled out a set of teeth that could have been from a Hollywood movie set. Huge fangs protruded from the top upper and lower mandibles.

  Father Eduardo made a face and crossed his arms. He finally spoke, after several moments of deep concentration.

  “You are Catholics?” he asked the men, who both said yes. “So you both believe in good and evil and Heaven and Hell?” They both sort of shrugged, uneasy in their own religious beliefs in front of this man that looked more witch doctor than priest. The priest grunted. “Let me tell you some t’ings. You ever wonder why the poor black communities attend churches like ‘dis one? You ever wonder why the African religions have so many evil spirit stories rooted in their religions? Der are ‘tings that can’t be explained in the world, my friends. You live in a city where the last wild bear lived here a hundred years ago. People here t’ink a big dog or a rat is scary. Well in villages in Africa, wild animals come in at night and carry off people for food. And in the islands and the villages of Africa, where the people are more in tune with wild nature, they believe in t’ings you would never accept.”

  The priest opened the book and started going through pages, looking at the bite model every now and again.

  “White Americans have no problem believing dinosaurs lived millions of years ago. The museums are filled with giant monsters that would eat you in a second, and everyone takes ‘dis as fact. Why is it ‘dat you are so selective in what monsters you believe and which you deny?” He pulled open a page and showed a huge monster-like man, with giant fangs, standing over several dead bodies. There was blood drawn everywhere in the picture, and the bodies were torn open at the necks, thighs, chest and arms.
“You see ‘dis picture? You see ‘dem teeth? You see ‘dem victims? It look familiar to you?”

  It was just an old picture from an old book—total mythology from another place and time, but both Roy and Tim felt their hair stand up. The creature in the book had attacked the victims at their arteries the same way the victims in New York City had been attacked. Roy felt physically ill as he flashed back to “Goth Girl”.

  “Jesus Christ,” said Tim quietly.

  “Yes. “Dat’s right. You better pray to Jesus Christ and to all of the Saints and God Almighty Hisself ‘dat ‘dis ting not walking the streets of your city. It is the undead. This creature been in Africa and Europe for a thousand years. Why you ‘tink Dracula movies so popular? Why you ‘tink people like horror movies? It’s because the notions tickle survival skills and memories deep in the brain of creatures and predators we no longer have to deal with, but are in our collective conscious.” He hopped off the chair and walked around the small office, arms waving as he spoke, now very animated.

  “Why you ‘tink people afraid of the de’ dark? It’s because fear keep you alive! It’s because there were t’ings that fed in the dark for a few thousand years, and those humans that stayed awake or on guard lived. And ‘dose that slept heavy were eaten. Go on—say it’s crazy superstitious nonsense.”

  Tim finally looked at Roy, and Roy looked white as a sheet. Tim cleared his throat, his mouth now very dry. “Look, Father…I’m a detective. I deal in facts and evidence. I try and keep an open mind, and I admit I have seen some crazy stuff in this city. I’m not saying yes or no to anything you’ve shared with us, I’m just trying to collect as much information as I can, okay? What do the stories from your culture say about this thing?”

  “It isn’t just my culture, policeman. Eastern Europe and Russia was full of such demon stories. Look at pictures from frescos in Italy. Dante’s Inferno—his idea of Hell. Always blood and violence in every human culture. The same ‘tings have scared humans for as long as we have walked on ‘dis Earth. And maybe the dinosaurs all died. But these t’ings…they still here. And now you gotta find ‘dis one.”