by David Beers
He brought the patch to his nose and breathed it in, just as he had in Georgia.
The smell was still there.
The animal reminded himself of who he was chasing. He left the backpack and Ziplock sitting there, stood with the patch in his hand, then moved through the darkened hallways. There were all types of scents that came and went, both old and more recent. Death had happened here, and a lot of it. Yet, none of the smells gave any sign of the target.
The animal went to the wall on his right, examining a bullet hole. He could tell the exact round, and knew from his research it wasn’t what the target used. This was a higher caliber.
The animal walked on, looking at the murder scene with a keen interest—like a wolf sniffing out a possible new home for it and its offspring. Curious, hopeful, careful.
He spent an hour inside before someone else finally arrived.
“Hello?” they called from another hallway.
The animal stopped moving and turned his head in the direction of the newcomer.
“No one is supposed to be in here!”
The animal turned his whole body toward the voice. He couldn’t quite pin the location, but knew it was growing closer. The animal had a switchblade in his left pocket, and a small pistol strapped to his ankle. His mind knew this the way an elite basketball player understands where his teammates are on the floor. He need not look at them to know that they can be used at any time.
“Hello? Who’s here?”
The animal stepped back from the open hallway; he kept moving until he felt a door behind him. He didn’t push on it, but stood there and slowly reached into his left pocket. He pulled out the switch blade, though didn’t open it.
The man’s footsteps echoed down the shadowed hallway as he moved closer. The animal’s heart rate remained steady, calm, as did his breathing.
The man stopped just before he would have come into view.
The animal saw a pink light just at the bend in the hallway, right where the man was. He blinked and the light disappeared. The animal thought nothing of it.
“Hello? Is anyone here?”
The animal said nothing, holding the knife loosely in his hand.
“Look, I’m going to call the cops.”
Silence.
Another few seconds passed and the newcomer started walking back the way he’d come.
The animal waited until he heard and smelled nothing else. He left quickly, grabbing his bag on the way out.
The animal was convinced that the target hadn’t been at the hospital when the abduction occurred. That didn’t mean he wasn’t responsible, only that he hadn’t been there.
Christian Windsor relied on empathy to catch the people he chased. He relied on an ability to understand them in a way that they perhaps couldn’t even understand themselves. From there, he was able to figure out what they actually wanted, and what they would do to get it.
If the animal possessed empathy, it was buried so deeply in his subconscious to be practically nonexistent. He did not care in the slightest about understanding anyone.
Luke Titan relied on logic that was tightly wound with an understanding of those he wanted. His understanding wasn’t as deep as Christian’s empathy, and so he relied on his logic more, which often led to the same results—if slightly slower.
The animal possessed logic, but not in the same sense as Titan. If asked, he certainly wouldn’t have said he relied on it, though. He didn’t understand those he chased any more than he understood himself. The animal relied on something much more basic, yet something that all beasts are tied to—man and creature alike: instinct.
The animal did not truly understand the relationship between the target and those he chased, nor did he care about it. He knew facts about Christian Windsor and Thomas Phillips, knew facts about them that related to Luke Titan as well. The why behind their animosity didn’t interest him.
Yet, instinct told him the target hadn’t been involved in the abduction. Not only was the target not there, but he also wasn’t in charge of it. What happened to the two FBI agents took place outside of his purview. Perhaps the instinct was triggered from what he saw in the hospital. There was a carelessness in that place that had been absent at the Atlanta house, even with the overgrown lawn and trashed closet. The target felt organized, precise, and the way the hospital had looked and smelled …
Disorder ruled in there, and instinct told the animal that the target would have been more detailed in the way he took those two.
So, someone else did it.
The animal’s instinct usually served him well, but it was at times like these where it could be wrong. His inability to understand those around him made him rely on what he would do given certain circumstances. And now? If someone had taken a target that he desired? He would continue after the target. So, with very little doubt, and no room for error, he made the decision that his target would continue pursuing the two men he wanted.
Luckily for him, Luke Titan and the animal’s internal directions weren’t that far apart.
Chapter 11
The art of hypnosis was something Luke had flirted with in his psychiatry practice, though never loved. It was a dangerous romance, and those types of relationships were to be slightly feared. Luke knew it could backfire, and he also knew the legal repercussions that might follow if he were discovered (his hypnosis sessions were never consented to by the patient). So, for the most part, he steered away from it. He had found, though, that it could be useful if used correctly.
Luke no longer needed to worry about repercussions or being caught. If it backfired, he would simply kill the subject (though, that wouldn’t be preferred).
His subject was Ms. Veronica Lopez.
Luke had secured the warehouse. The work had been extensive, and indeed, there were more guards to kill, but in the end focus and relentlessness got most jobs done. Christian and Tommy were elsewhere now, and would remain there over the next week. Luke was doing his best to ensure they lived, though it was touch and go with Christian at the moment.
Perhaps Tommy was stronger, though probably, Twaller had put more energy into Christian because he knew that’s where Luke’s affinity lay; either way, Christian was much worse off. Infection had started growing in the deep cuts across his body, the salve having been applied sloppily. Tommy’s burns were healing, though both men were under heavy sedation.
Luke had plans for everyone involved here, including Mr. Twaller, but right now, he needed to ensure that Veronica would play her part. He had failed in making Christian kill everyone he loved, but that didn’t mean he had completely failed.
Veronica sat in front of him, her face still and her eyelids half open. She was hypnotized, though Luke knew this one time would not complete the task (or any singular time). Two days had passed and Veronica spent 24 of those 48 hours in a trance like this. Luke let her sleep every four hours, and during that time he worked on making sure Christian and Tommy lived. After finishing her sleep, it was back to the task at hand.
A week of this, plus reminders every day moving forward, and she should remain where Luke needed her.
Magic was about to happen, and Luke needed an assistant.
“Okay, Veronica,” he said. “What were we discussing last evening?”
“Purpose …”
The room was hazy.
Like heat rising from the street, causing the world to look as though it might be made of liquid.
Christian blinked, hoping to clear the haze, but it remained. Pain ruled like a Russian Czar would have hundreds of years ago, brooking no dissent and murdering anything that fought against its superiority. There was nowhere for Christian to retreat to. The mansion was underwater. All he had was this hazy world or unconscious darkness.
The dark, Christian knew, was very close to death. Perhaps just one room over.
“Sleep now,” someone said, though in the watery haze around him, he couldn’t tell who. The voice sounded like Veronica, but then it sou
nded like Luke, and finally, it was Tommy.
“Sleep,” it said again.
Christian did.
He did not dream. There wasn’t any space for dreams, not with death pressing so close. Christian knew nothing, for hours, or days, or months, or years—time mattered not.
He slept and in that sleep, there was the peace of not caring.
When he awoke, the haze was gone, though the pain wasn’t.
He looked to his right and saw Tommy sitting next to him. He tried to talk, but as he opened his mouth, he quickly realized his vocal chords wouldn’t perform.
“Good. You’re both here. Christian, Tommy and I were very worried about you for a while.”
Christian looked forward, though it felt like a year passed in doing so.
I’m drugged, he thought. Is Tommy?
His usually beyond agile mind gave no response. It was silent.
“Yes, I can tell you’re having trouble. Don’t worry. It was necessary to give you heavy sedatives, Christian, or you surely would have died. You were facing infection from the beatings.”
Christian focused, and hard, doing everything he could to thrust his once powerful mind to the forefront. He looked at Luke, and finally took in the room around him.
He saw Charles Twaller.
Or was it Randy? Randy something-or-other?
He couldn’t remember, but he knew the fat man. He sat in a chair much like the one Christian was in, only his blubber was falling out over the armrests, and he was bound tightly. Christian looked at his own arms and legs, seeing that he wasn’t restrained.
He tried to get up, directing his body to rise, but nothing happened. He sat as still as Tommy.
“I think I can almost see your thoughts, Christian,” Luke said. “No, you won’t be moving for quite some time. You will, though, sooner or later, which is more than we can say for Tommy.”
He smiled and then turned to the fat man. His belly hung out so far that almost nothing could be seen of his genitals, just a small tuft of hair poking out from beneath. His flabby skin had stretch marks across almost every part—his chest, stomach, his upper arms, inner thighs. All of him.
“I’ve decided how our friend here will die. It’s going to be rather gruesome, but I don’t think either of you will mind.”
Christian watched as Luke turned to his right, gesturing with his hand to a door that seemed very, very far off.
“Veronica, are you ready?”
Christian jerked at the name, the fastest he’d moved since waking. He turned his head in the direction of Luke’s hand, and watched as Veronica rolled a small grill across the floor. It had a propane tank underneath it, though the entire gadget wasn’t more than three feet wide.
Christian stared at Veronica as she stopped in front of Luke. He didn’t understand this at all. She looked at he and Tommy as if this was … normal? As if she should be pushing a grill toward Luke? Helping him?
“Veh—,” Christian tried to say, a string of drool dripping from his mouth as soon as his lips opened.
“Christian, let’s wait on conversation, okay? There is much to be done yet.” Luke looked at Veronica. “Will you light it for me? I need to prepare Mr. Twaller.”
Christian lost focus on Luke, his eyes taking in only Veronica. She knelt down and turned the tank’s valve, stood, and sparked the grill. Fire flared up from beneath.
“Leave it high, Veronica. We want to cook this fast.”
She stepped away from the grill and stared at Christian. He saw no recognition in her eyes. It was as if someone was wearing her, but the perpetrator had none of her memories, none of her history.
“Over here, Christian. Tommy’s paying attention. I need you to as well.”
Christian turned his head and saw Luke standing behind Twaller.
“In this life, Mr. Twaller loved his food. Thus, why his body is so disgustingly large. As he dies, I’d like for him to continue his enjoyment of food.” Luke’s hands were behind Twaller’s chair, and he now raised them. He held a large knife in his right hand, and his left held a clamp. “Mr. Twaller, while his mouth is gagged, isn’t under any of the sedatives you two are, so he knows exactly what is happening. Isn’t that right?” Luke looked down at the fat man. Sweat ran off his forehead like rain drops down a windshield. Christian saw for the first time that his whole body glistened with it.
The man was terrified.
A high squeal escaped his gagged mouth, sounding like a buzzsaw’s engine redlining.
“Shhh, Mr. Twaller. There’s no reason to scream yet.”
Luke placed the knife in between his belt and waist line, then gently reached around both of Twaller’s shoulders, the clamp in his left hand. He moved like a lover teasing his partner, right until he touched the man’s flesh. Then, with his right hand, he grabbed a fist of fat and crammed it into the clamp, tightening the thing down.
It all happened in about two seconds.
Christian’s mind wasn’t flexible enough to fully take in the speed, only that Twaller was squealing again.
Luke whipped the knife from his pants with the ease of someone who throws them for a living.
With a calm face and no words, his left hand grasped the clamp. A wad of fat hung out the other side like a sack of jelly. Twaller’s screech grew louder as the knife moved closer.
“Here we go,” Luke said.
He took the entire piece of flab in one slice, the knife sharp and cutting through the flesh as if it were softened butter.
Blood spewed out, drenching Twaller’s legs. It kept coming, even as Luke stepped away.
“Excuse me, Veronica.”
He moved to the grill, and with blood covering his hand, he lay the slab of fat down over the fire. Flames roared upward, greedily licking the already burning fat, even as the blood fell onto the grates, causing it to sizzle.
Twaller’s face was red, nearly the color of an apple. His screaming was so loud it was almost as though he wasn’t gagged.
Luke reached beneath the grill and pulled out a pair of tongs.
“We do not have time to cook it well done. Not if we want Mr. Twaller to be able to taste himself before he bleeds out.”
Luke flipped the fat, flame leaping up again with the fresh side upon it.
Christian looked back at the blood. It was everywhere, and the man was still screaming, as if somehow all those screams could stem the life flowing from him.
Luke turned the flames down on the grill; then using his knife, he cut off a chunk of the fat. “We’ll leave the rest. Perhaps you’ll want seconds, Mr. Twaller?”
The man’s face turned from his open gut and looked at the approaching monster. Luke held the meat with the tongs, his right hand free for whatever he had planned.
“Here, let’s take this off,” he said as he reached the back of the chair. His right hand undid something at the base of Twaller’s neck and the gag fell from his mouth.
“PLEASE GOD! PLEASE STOP!” Twaller bellowed.
Luke looked down at the dying man, his head cocked slightly as if he couldn’t understand exactly what was being said. He smiled, and it was pure lunacy. His eyes were alight and his white teeth sung of the joy he was experiencing.
Luke reached down with his right hand and spread the man’s mouth open. Twaller fought hard, but Luke’s hand was simply too strong. He moved the tong full of flesh to the man’s lips. “Bon appetit.” He shoved the flesh into the man’s mouth, removing the tongs as he did. In their place, he shoved his right hand deep into the man’s mouth, and Christian watched in disbelief as his hand kept sinking further inside.
Twaller tried to scream but only muffled echoes of pain came out.
And still, Luke’s hand went deeper as if he was shoving it into loosely packed sand.
His whole hand was in Twaller’s mouth, stretching his face out like a fish hanging from a hook.
“Eat, friend. Eat and be merry.”
Luke’s upper arm shoved harder, and a sickening wet so
und called out from Twaller’s throat. Luke’s arm sank in halfway to the elbow.
Twaller sounded like he might be trying to gargle, the once frantic screams no longer possible.
“Please, enjoy your meal,” Luke said. His incredibly strong arm flexed again, and it filled the man’s throat, his elbow sticking out from Twaller’s dislocated jaw. Blood fell from Twaller’s nose and ears. His eyes stared upward at Luke, but Christian saw no life in them. The blood flowing from his stomach dripped weakly.
The man’s heart had stopped.
Luke pulled his arm out slowly, red entrails covering his skin, looking like bloodied spiderwebs.
He looked at Christian, the smile gone, but the glee still in his eyes. “Veronica, will you see our guests back to their beds?”
Chapter 12
Waverly wasn’t sleeping. He didn’t know if it was work or his ‘extracurricular’ activities, but either way, he sat up all night watching infomercials.
He drank some, though not too much. He wouldn’t show up at work with a hangover, which was imperative. Appearances still mattered.
A week had passed since he made the call, which he now knew would haunt him forever. A week without sleep. A week without any sign of Tommy or Christian. Or Luke, for that matter. There’d been no more attacks, at least. There was that to be happy about, if nothing else.
The issue was that Waverly was a dead man walking, and he knew it. He went into work every day and dealt with the aftermath of Titan’s war. He kept reading reports and sending those that required it up the chain of command. He did all of this knowing that, sooner or later, what he did would come to light.
Titan would die, of that he had little doubt, but Waverly would face his punishment as well. Not death, but everything he’d built in this life would be trashed because of that one call. People who had declared him a great man would say he was reprehensible because of one act. Waverly wasn’t comfortable with his decision, but he wouldn’t have changed it—Titan must pay. So, at night, he drank.
Waverly was settling in for another long night of riveting Life Lock commercials when he heard the knock on his door. He wasn’t even sure it was a knock at first; the sound was faint and the television much louder. It could have been the second or third attempt, but finally, the noise made its way to Waverly’s ears.
