by Joseph John
“I didn’t mean to—”
“Stay here.” The detective put an arm around Frederickson’s shoulder and led him toward a far corner.
Shawn sighed. That went well. If Harrington didn’t think he was a suspect before, he did now.
He scanned the faces in the crowd, looking for someone familiar, someone he might’ve seen in another crowd, in another place. Someone watching him.
But none of the faces were familiar, and none showed any particular interest in him. At least, not that he could tell. He sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets, then took them out and clasped them in front of him. He checked his watch, folded his arms over his chest, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
He waited, glancing at Sam and Frederickson, who stood together in a conspiratorial huddle, the detective hunched over a notepad and pen, the head of security just hunched over. He wondered what they were talking about.
He’d begun brainstorming reasons to approach them—had in fact been on the verge of approaching them anyway, reason or not—when Sam slipped his notepad into the inside pocket of his jacket, and the two turned and made their way back toward him.
“I need to talk to the medical examiner,” Harrington said. “You’re coming with me.”
“Did you find out anything?”
Harrington glanced at Frederickson, who remained silent.
“Let’s go,” the detective said.
He escorted Shawn to the security checkpoint, and Shawn followed the detective through the metal detector, performing the time-honored tradition of removing his belt and emptying his pockets into a plastic tray before passing through to the far side.
They traveled ever deeper into the heart of the medical center, the stench of bleach growing stronger with each twist and turn of the hallway. The two passed through a pair of steel doors, and a dim corridor stretched before them, lit by bulbs encased in wire mesh spaced along the chalk-blue ceiling. Metal doors blended into the length of the hall, betrayed by silver doorknobs and lines of darkness that marred their edges. A pair of police officers lounged outside one of the doors, a thin stream of light seeping from beneath it. They turned toward Shawn and Harrington, and one extended a hand in greeting. Harrington shook it.
“How you doing, detective?” the police officer said, his face grim.
“Where’s the ME?”
The officer jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the door. “His office.”
“I need to talk to him.”
“Of course,” the police officer said, but Harrington had already stepped past, pushing open the door to the room.
The medical examiner’s office was no office at all, but an autopsy room. Rows of metal vaults lined the walls, each large enough to accommodate a human corpse. Shawn imagined their sightless eyes staring into the darkness, bodies disfigured by whatever violence had filled their final memory. He gave an involuntary shudder as his skin broke into gooseflesh.
Dressed in a white lab coat, the medical examiner stooped over a steel table, scrolling through a digital tablet. He looked up as they approached. His eyes were narrow and his features pinched. He reminded Shawn of a weasel. “Good afternoon, Detective Harrington,” he said.
“Norman.” The detective nodded, his notepad and pen appearing in his hands with the calculated ease of a gunfighter drawing his revolver. “What’ve you got for me?”
Norman tilted his head down until his chin rested on his chest. An extended silence followed. Shawn wondered if the man had fallen asleep. But after a long pause, he breathed a heavy exhalation and looked up. “Nothing. I have nothing at all,” he said, each word a prolongation that stretched taut with an ache Shawn found painful. “I left…when they evacuated the building. When I returned…the body was gone.” He pronounced each syllable with distinction, pausing often, as if reluctant to let them slide from his lips.
Harrington scribbled in his notepad as Norman responded to his questions in a protracted drawl. Shawn was wrong. The medical examiner didn’t remind him of a weasel. He reminded him of a sloth.
“I understand you hadn’t examined the body yet?”
“It was…still in refrigeration. I had yet to enter it…into our system.”
“So no prints, DNA, anything like that?”
Norman shook his head. “Unfortunately…no.”
“During the evacuation, did you notice anyone that didn’t belong?” Harrington asked. “Maybe someone in the hall you didn’t recognize, or someone walking in while everyone else was walking out, or someone who just seemed out of place?”
Norman cocked his head to one side and looked past the detective, over his shoulder, as if watching the events replay in his mind’s eye. “I was alone. I saw no one…enter the room…as I left. Nor did I see anyone…unusual…during the evacuation. Keep in mind…detective…it was quite…chaotic.”
“About how long did it last? I mean, from when you left your office until you returned, how long were you gone?”
“Oh, I’d say…maybe thirty or forty minutes.”
“And you didn’t see anyone in the hallway during the evacuation? Anyone you didn’t recognize hanging around?”
“No, detective. I am afraid I saw nothing…unusual.”
Shawn wanted to strangle the words out of the man. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to stay quiet.
“There a way out of this building they could leave through without being seen?” Harrington asked.
Norman paused, tapping his chin with his forefinger. “Hm,” he said. “Hm.” They waited. “Yes. There is a delivery entrance…in the rear of the building. It leads into the alley…behind the medical center. Everyone else…left through the front doors. They must have taken the body…that way. I doubt they carried it…out the front door.” He chuckled and shook his head. “At least…not without notice.”
Harrington flipped his notepad closed and it vanished into his coat pocket. “Take me there.”
The medical examiner led them out of his office. Although his strides were long, he walked with exaggerated care, as if moving underwater. Harrington walked beside him in silence, and Shawn followed.
Rounding a corner, they came upon a pair of double doors at the end of a short hallway. Harrington turned to Norman. “Thanks for your time. If you can remember anything else, anything at all, call me.” They shook hands and, to Shawn’s relief, the medical examiner said nothing else. He nodded, turned, and disappeared back the way they’d come.
“Good grief,” Shawn said. “I bet it takes him an hour just to brush his teeth in the morning.”
“You should see him drive.” Harrington pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pushed the door open. “Don’t touch anything,” he said, holding it open for Shawn as they stepped outside. It closed behind them with a click.
They found themselves in an alley shrouded in shadow, the sun blocked by the buildings that loomed over them. A mountain of garbage bags and soggy cardboard boxes towered against the far wall next to a rusted green dumpster. Most of the bags had split open, spilling their innards upon the ground. The stench of rot hung thick in the afternoon air.
Harrington turned in a slow circle, scanning his surroundings. The alley behind the medical center was a block long, beginning and ending at numbered streets. At either end, pedestrians hurried past on the sidewalk, the backdrop of traffic a blur of color.
Harrington froze.
“What?” Shawn asked, looking around. The detective held up a hand, his head cocked to one side.
Shawn stopped moving. He held his breath. Silence. Wait. It could’ve been his imagination. No, there it was again, a rustle, a stir of movement. Somewhere, a horn blared, and he tried to drown out the sounds of the city as he focused on what Harrington must have also heard. Again, a whisper of sound.
It came from inside the dumpster.
Maybe a rat. No, it sounded too big to be a rat. Something larger. Harrington reached beneath his jacket and wrapped a hand ar
ound the grip of his holstered pistol. He waved Shawn back as he stepped forward.
“This is Detective Sam Harrington of the New York City Police Department,” he said, his voice amplified by the confines of the alley. “Who’s there? Show yourself.”
Shawn tensed, ready to move, ready to run. He scanned his surroundings for anything he could use as a weapon. There was nothing. Panic clawed at him like a wild animal, and he took a step backward. No mistaking it for his imagination or a trick of the wind now. Something was moving inside the dumpster.
“This is the police,” Harrington said. “Come out of there. Now.”
A hollow bang echoed through the alley like a tomb door slamming shut, and Shawn flinched, waiting for the bullet that would shatter his skull. Another bang. It came from inside the dumpster, someone hammering against its side. The rustling grew louder, and a hand thrust up from the refuse. A moment later, a face appeared.
To call him filthy would have been kind. A thick layer of grime covered the man, and rotting foodstuff and clumps of unnamable foulness tangled through his matted hair and beard.
“Please don’t shoot me,” he said, the words whining over the edge of the dumpster. “Please don’t shoot me.”
Harrington relaxed. “I’m not gonna shoot you.”
The vagrant shifted his gaze from Harrington to Shawn and back again. He remained low in the dumpster and ducked each time a siren wailed or a horn bleated its sharp reproof. He reminded Shawn of a beaten dog. “What do you want?”
Harrington jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “You see anyone come out of that door in the last hour?”
The vagrant stared, as if measuring them with his gaze. When he spoke, his voice was as quiet as a thought. “I been hiding from them.”
Shawn stepped forward, straining to hear his words. Harrington moved closer as well. “Who are you hiding from?” the detective asked.
The vagrant flicked his tongue across his lips, glancing to his left and to his right. “Demons,” he said, his voice low and conspiratorial. “They’re everywhere. Be careful. They’ll wear your skin as a suit if you ain’t careful.”
“Demons,” Harrington said.
The vagrant nodded, his eyes widening. “Exactly. They look like men, like you and me, but they ain’t men. They’re demons. And they don’t eat no meat, either, ’less of course they’re eating your soul.”
“Of course.”
Now the vagrant’s gaze fell upon Shawn, and his eyes narrowed. “Him,” he said, and stabbed a finger at Shawn’s chest. “He’s one of them. He’s a demon in the body of a man, and he’ll eat your soul.”
Shawn’s skin crawled.
Harrington rolled his eyes. “This is a waste of time,” he said. “Come on.” He moved back to the door of the medical center and, using his handkerchief, tugged at the handle. It didn’t open. “Christ. Let’s go around.” He turned and walked down the alley toward the street.
“Mark my words, detective!” the vagrant called after them, his voice echoing down the alley. “He’ll eat your soul!”
Shawn hurried to catch up with Harrington. He knew madness wasn’t contagious, but he still wanted to put as much distance between himself and the vagrant as possible. No need to take chances.
He’ll eat your soul.
“Where are we going?” Shawn asked.
“Midtown North,” Harrington said. “You’ve got some explaining to do.”
“I already told you—”
“Save it. I’m not in the mood.”
Shawn bit his tongue and fell into step behind the detective. They reached the end of the alley, and he glanced over his shoulder one last time. The vagrant was gone, disappeared again into the refuse of the dumpster. He turned back to the street.
And had only an instant to react.
A white van swerved out of the flow of traffic and raced straight at the detective, its engine screaming like a banshee. It was less than two yards from the curb and still accelerating. Harrington, his back turned and unaware of the danger, continued down the sidewalk away from him.
Shawn leaped toward the detective.
Everything happened in slow motion. The van jumped the curb, its tires spinning as they left the ground. Someone let out a roar, like a primal cry of warning. The detective half-turned. It was too late. He wouldn’t have time to get out of the way. The tires hit the sidewalk. They bounced once and shot forward with a chirp, leaving a smear of rubber on the concrete.
Shawn stepped in front of the van and slammed into the detective, knocking him clear. Then the van was on top of him. Plastered to its chrome grill, the remains of a butterfly stared back at him, fluttering in the wind.
Chapter Two
Sam Harrington stomped down the alley with Jaffe in tow. As if a homicide and missing body weren’t enough, now he had to deal with this shit. Sam had been suspicious when he’d first seen Jaffe at the medical center, but the kid was probably telling the truth that he’d read about the bomb threat online and decided to check things out himself. But the last thing Sam needed was some civilian trying to play gumshoe and mucking up his investigation in the process. He’d have to put the fear of God in Jaffe and make sure it didn’t become a habit.
Behind him, Shawn Jaffe let out a primal shout.
The detective started to turn. Out of the corner of his eye, something large and white bore down on him. A van. Oh, holy Mary, mother of God. Its shadow swallowed him whole. It jumped the curb, tires squealing, and he had no time to react. He was going to die.
Then Shawn Jaffe leapt forward and slammed into him, propelling him off the sidewalk and into traffic. A horrific crunch followed, and he hit the street. The skin tore from his palms as he tried to catch himself, leaving bloody smears on the concrete. His head bounced off the ground, and his vision swam. A horn blared, tires squealed, and Sam’s reflection stared at him from the chrome fender of a taxi stopped inches from his face. The metal twisted his features into a grotesque parody, the eyes lopsided, the nose bulbous, the mouth a swirl of lips.
The van smashed into the side of the medical center, its front end a crumpled ruin, the engine hissing and clacking. Tires chirped as it sped backward, and it bounced down the curb and into the street. The windshield’s glare mirrored the skyline of the city, an inverted reflection of an alternate reality where bad things didn’t happen to good people. The rear of the van slammed into the side of a passing SUV, then it shot forward, fishtailing as it sped away, but not before Sam got a look at the license plate.
He turned back to the sidewalk. Jaffe lay in a crumpled heap. Other bodies lay scattered about like discarded trinkets. Most struggled to their feet, a few sobbing, others staring with blank expressions. Jaffe remained motionless.
Sam rose and stumbled forward, a kaleidoscope of pain in his hands and his head. Already, a surge of spectators had begun to gather at the periphery, as if watching caged animals in a zoo rather than a scene of human tragedy. A few had even whipped out their smartphones hoping to score the next viral video hit. Sam shoved his way through them and fell to his knees beside Jaffe.
“Damn it,” Sam said. He pressed his fists to his temples and closed his eyes. “Goddamn it.”
“Are you all right?” Jaffe asked.
Sam opened his eyes and found Jaffe staring at him. Sam frowned and cocked his head. The man’s suit was frayed and soiled, but there was no blood, not a mark on him.
“Detective, are you all right?” Jaffe asked again.
Sam frowned. “Me? I’m fine. What about you? Are you hurt?”
Jaffe started to sit up. “No, I—”
“Wait, don’t move,” Sam said. “You might have a spine or neck injury or something. I’m gonna get help. Stay here.”
“Okay.”
Sam took a deep breath, about to cry out for an ambulance, a doctor, anything, when a young brown-haired police officer forced his way through the crowd. He recognized him as Mason, the uniform from earlier outside the entrance to the med
ical center.
“Thank God,” Sam said as he approached.
“I heard the call over my radio. What the hell happened?”
“Hit-and-run. I need you to call it in. White van, Dodge, maybe. License plate—ready to copy?”
Mason tapped the number Sam recited into his phone. “Which way did it go?”
As Mason made the radio call, Sam turned back to Jaffe. “Help’s on the way.”
Jaffe closed his eyes. Sweat dripped from his face. In the distance, sirens wailed their tragic cacophony.
“Headquarters, this is unit fifty-six. I got a 10-53, hit-and-run, white van, possible make Dodge. New York tags, license plate CNK80Q3. Last seen heading north on First Avenue. And there’s like five or six people down, and some ain’t moving.” Mason paused as the radio crackled. “Roger. Unit fifty-six assuming command.” The radio crackled again and fell silent. He stared at it, his expression that of a boy at the fairground whose parents have disappeared, leaving him alone in the tragic carnival of life.
“Mason,” Sam said.
“Yeah?”
“Get these people back. Make room for the paramedics.”
Mason nodded. “Yeah, thanks.” He strode toward the crowd of onlookers. “All right, people. Move back. Come on, now. Move back.” He extended his arms to the side as he stepped forward, and the tide of humanity swelled away from him. “If you’re injured, I need you to stay over there. That’s right, right over there. The paramedics are on their way.”
Mason was still struggling to maintain control of the scene when the approaching sirens reached a crescendo. A red fire engine sliced through traffic at the end of the street as it weaved its way toward them. An EMS ambulance and several squad cars followed—a parade of flashing lights and colors foretold by crime, suffering, and death. The vehicles came to a stop in the road, and their doors sprung open. Firefighters jumped from the engine. Joined by the police, they split into two groups and headed toward opposite ends of the block and waved their arms at the cars trying to inch their way past the emergency vehicles. The road between them, where the hit-and-run had happened, changed to a fluorescent orange color.
