Blood Web: Caitlin Diggs Series #1

by Gary Starta

  Once upon a time, he was a scrawny weakling. He was an easy target for these testosterone-charged monsters. Now he could kick their butt. And he hadn’t spent a single minute in a pricey gym to transform himself. There was no need to withstand the pain of buff-hood. He imagined his existence prior to finding the crystal. Maybe he would have even become one of them, standing around in a circle of other Alpha men, each waiting to outdo the other on the bench press. Ah, and then there would be the women. Parading around in skintight spandex pants like it was the ’80s—all made up like they were attending a party, hoping to catch a nice, big caveman for Saturday night. They epitomized primitive man and woman. And instead of pacing around a cave, grunting and sweating, they convened in a glass-encased carpeted showroom. The only difference: they were now grunting and sweating in a more sterile environment.

  Shenk was glad he could dispense with all this male-female posturing. His newfound power was only getting stronger each and every day—and all he had to do was eat a lot of turkey to get it. His self-esteem had soared in the span of a few weeks. Yes…it was good to be king, but even better to be invincible.

  A few minutes later, Shenk hailed one of the taxis. He was picked up quickly. He never realized it had a lot to do with his current get up. Dressing as a woman did have its advantages. He requested the driver take him to the Central Park Zoo. There was an urgent matter to attend to. A small voice inside his head told him so. He questioned the voice out loud, inviting a look from the cabbie. But the driver didn’t care if his passenger was a nut job. He was dressed as a she. The cabbie feigned a yawn and glanced into his rear view mirror hoping to catch a glimpse of some cleavage. Shenk had carefully wrapped the crystal underneath his print dress. He looked well endowed. Fortunately, the ride was over in a few minutes before the driver could search his limited English vocabulary to ask Shenk for a date. Lukas dug a wad of bills from his pocket, not even taking time to count it. The driver shot him a wink and smiled. Apparently the crystal was either a good tipper or Shenk was a hot babe. Deception was running rampant.

  Shenk was also part of this deceit, continuing to believe he was acting on his own volition. In truth, he never knew the Central Park Zoo even existed. So how could he have asked the driver to take him there? He threw some more money down at the zoo’s ticket booth. He bought an admission pass and a pair of shades, which promised maximum UV ray protection.

  Lukas was now off to take care of his errand. He paraded down a path, swishing and swaying like a Gwen Stefani look-a-like in drag. He walked with purpose past the monkeys and toucans. He was there to see an old friend. He recognized the animal the minute he laid eyes on it. It was the bobcat he had seen in his dreams. The animal paced its cage. Shenk felt its pain. Without even glancing to notice if other park-goers were in the vicinity, Lukas began bending the iron bars. When he was done, they resembled a set of parentheses.

  The cat was free and on the prowl. A woman shrieked to confirm this while a park attendant rushed to scoop a small child into his arms. A group of ten-year-olds stopped in mid-laughter. They let go of their purple, blue, and orange balloons, opting to break into a full out sprint for the express purpose of surviving another day. But in this reality, nobody needed to move a muscle. The cat had another purpose.

  He was not there to harm them. Shenk waved his hand, creating a shimmering sensation. A sparkling glow enveloped his arm. He was creating a passageway to another dimension. The cat bared its fangs and hissed. In one glorious and effortless leap, the animal transcended its current reality. Halfway through the portal, the cat glowed like a rainbow. In another second, the cat and the portal it leaped through were gone. And by the time the crowd had composed itself, Shenk and his print dress had vanished as well.

  One day earlier, Ross Fisher had conducted his own disappearing act. He accomplished it in the FBI agent’s Tennessee hotel room. Something had been troubling the newspaper reporter. It sprang from the deep recesses of his mind like a weed remembering to make its annual appearance on your front lawn.

  All the thoughts Col. Tom Wolvington had planted in his head were beginning to ebb and fade. Wolvington’s pep talk about bettering humanity seemed like a distant dream. It wasn’t so much that Fisher wanted to warn Diggs of the danger she was in. It was more far more primeval than that.

  A little thing called lust was beginning to take root. Ross Fisher wanted Caitlin Diggs so much he could taste her. He forgot about leading the mystery man’s helper to the crystal’s whereabouts. He forgot about how the crystal would end all war. He even dismissed his dream about becoming a star journalist. That night he was willing to trade it all just for a romp in the sack with Caitlin. A spark had been ignited when they met. But Fisher was too driven by career aspirations and Tom Wolvington’s mind control to fully realize it. It all came rushing back to him as he sat in a Knoxville bar. He caught a whiff of a perfume. It didn’t matter whom the scent was attached to. It had awakened Fisher’s senses. The first woman he envisioned in his mind was Caitlin.

  He drove to her hotel without a clue as to how he would approach her (just like almost every other man on the planet) and invented a story to tell the desk clerk. Fisher explained he was Caitlin’s fiancé and had just flown in from Oklahoma to see her. He bartered with the young hotel gatekeeper for nearly a half hour before acquiring the key card to her room. The clerk was not moved by Fisher’s love, but by a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill placed in his palm.

  Fisher employed his best investigative journalist skills to unlock the door. He stepped inside with a glee that rivaled Woodward and Bernstein. But Ross was not exposing a scandal. He wanted to expose Caitlin Diggs. The thought of her naked body aroused him. Visions of her sapphire blue eyes, long dark hair, and model length legs hooked him deeper into a trance. His blood pressure rose and his breathing became heavy. But something wasn’t right.

  The reporter was not simply reacting to lust as he peered around the dark hotel room. He was experiencing a refresher course Tom Wolvington had whipped up expressly for this purpose. The colonel had to get the troops back in focus. A searing shard of pain bore down on Fisher’s skull. Everything became white. Ross stumbled toward the window. He needed to open it, to get a bit of fresh air. He hoped a little oxygen would alleviate the wave of nausea, which just accompanied his splitting headache. But the waft of fresh air was not going to cut it.

  The pain subconsciously told Fisher to get the hell out of that room—on the double soldier! Before Wolvington’s plans could be divulged, before Caitlin Diggs could be exposed. Wolvington pressed a button with no more fanfare than changing a channel. Ross Fisher succumbed to the pain and stumbled out of the room. Diggs had remained asleep through his visit while Agent Rivers was engaged in bathroom phone conversation. No one was the wiser to Fisher’s late night intrusion, except Tom Wolvington of course. He pushed the limits of his little black box that night. Ross Fisher couldn’t emerge from his bed the next day. Hence, the Oklahoma journalist slept through the news about Lukas Schenker’s alleged journey to New York City.

  Agent Diggs had demanded the police keep their broadcast a secret, but loose lips prevailed. Someone tipped off the media to the possibility of Schenker’s east coast appearance. Newswoman Suzie Cheng was one of those reporters. She was desperate to break a story on Manhattan’s downtown streets. Not because she cared about saving her fellow being, but because she was concerned with something far more threatening to her universe—a dip in corporate sponsorship. However, Suzie and a host of NYC’s finest would all be duped today. Not one of them would be on the lookout for a dude who looked like a lady.

  Lukas Schenker took in a movie after finishing his errand. He didn’t even glance at the marquee to see what was playing. The experience turned out to just as butt numbing as it was mind numbing. The theater unveiled what seemed like seventeen minutes of cola, candy, and car insurance advertisements before the first trailer began. One of the patrons in close proximity whispered to his date, “You’re not g
etting more bang for your buck, you’re getting more banged for your buck.”

  Shenk appreciated New York’s candor. A voice loud enough to announce the third world war intervened. It warned patrons to shut off cell phones. But Shenk wondered why the theater didn’t discourage all the loud popcorn chewing noises emanating around him. For him, this intrusion was for more disruptive than a telephone chime. A loud popping sound ensued, signaling the start of a new reel of celluloid. Now it was time for the previews.

  The baritone voice of an overly confident announcer poured through a series of surround sound speakers. He urged theatergoers not to miss the industries next great romantic comedy: Divorcing Lincoln. The speaker launched into narrative to explain the film’s convoluted premise.

  “A young scientist sets high speed laugher into motion when he clones a bone of our nation’s most beloved president—Abraham Lincoln. Operating without one single clue as to how the dating game has changed in the last two centuries, young Abraham the clone emerges on the singles scene only to fall victim to the charms of materialistic Lawanda Cooper. The narrator pauses while a movie clip plays. Lawanda is speaking to a girlfriend:

  “Girlfriend, don’t discount Abe’s appearance. He may be nothing more than a pile of old shingles to look at, but the man sure knows how to secure some serious bling. So after he gives me a few diamonds and bracelets, I’ll divorce his ass and get me some other fool clone.”

  The announcer resumes. “Young, disillusioned Abe overhears his new wife’s conversation. He sets off to Capitol Hill, yearning to unite the nation one more time. This time, it’s personal. The shrewd lawmaking clone has a trick up his sleeve. From now on, divorce will be illegal...”

  Shenk had heard more than enough. The film’s plot was just as offensive as its language. “These people need something to make them take family values more seriously....”

  Without a single change of a reel or pop of a disc drive, the movie The Sound of Music began to play. The reaction was deafening. Popcorn launched into flight. Threats were hurled.

  “Yo, if I wanted to see a Julie Andrews movie I’d visit my grandma,” a boy ranted.

  A voice urged Shenk to depart from the theater at once. He complied begrudgingly. As the doors swung shut behind Shenk, he could still hear the manager screaming in frustration. There was no way to stop The Sound of Music.

  Disgusted with his first serving of New York culture, Shenk nearly broke into an all out trot to cleanse his palette. His stroll took him to Eighty-second Street, the entrance to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It stood there in all its glory. Lukas beheld the breathtaking neoclassical sculpturing of the building’s facade. It was like taking a trip to another time. He stood there agog to the building’s charm. Grand archways and prominent columns accented its front. His mind searched for data. It told him a man named Richard Morris Hunt designed the structure. He had studied architecture in Paris.

  Lukas could not imagine life without this assisted living. How could people walk around, woefully ignorant to the creation of their surroundings? Beauty and art must be appreciated if we’re to remain on top of the evolutionary chain. Shenk now had all the tools to drink in life’s offerings. Knowledge and appreciation walked hand in hand. His new awareness did not threaten him. He did not consider his new take on life as strange. A month ago, Shenk would have been hard pressed to put together a sentence on why he liked macaroni and cheese. Now, just the promise of art almost made him want to cry. But there was a very logical reason to all this: Lukas Schenker was utilizing nearly seventy percent of his brain capacity.

  Mozart’s Sonata in B-flat Major greeted him as he stepped through the museum’s entrance. The piece of music surged through his head. Auditory senses became interspersed with visuals. His mind literally streamed a video clip of the experience. He saw waterfalls, beautiful Victorian gardens, and swans floating on ponds. It was all choreographed perfectly to the music. Had the composer originally intended this enhancement? Had classical music aficionados only been listening to the great works of Beethoven, Chopin and Schubert all this time? Apparently, these geniuses were capable of evoking imagery within their orchestral suites because they were so much more in tune with their world.

  Shenk believed the crystal could open up all minds to fully experience their intentions. The discovery sent shivers down his spine. He wanted to call Gayle and describe this beautiful revelation to her, but he resisted for the good of the mission. By the time he reached the ticket counter, tears welled in his eyes.

  In an attempt to cheer what the museum’s cashier falsely believed was a sad, young woman, the cashier strongly suggested Shenk take in the Mona Lisa exhibit. She explained the painting was on loan from France.

  “You sure picked a good day to visit, Miss. Today’s the last day for you to judge for yourself whether Mona is really smiling.” The woman behind the counter continued rambling, failing to elicit a verbal response from the strange visitor. “Are you from around here? Or just visiting?”

  Shenk answered flatly. “We’re all just visiting, ma’am.”

  The cold response hushed the cashier. This woman definitely wasn’t smiling. She handed her a pass and a map, which outlined the museum’s floor plans. But Shenk refused the pamphlet. He already knew where each and every painting, sculpture, and statue would be stationed as he was “online.”

  Taking the advice of the nosy cashier, Shenk decided to see what all the fuss was about. His excursion took him to the second floor where they kept the European paintings. The room was filled to capacity with the young and the old, all straining to catch a glimpse of the da Vinci classic. As Shenk waded through a sea of people, his mind began to search the history of the painting. Mona, also known as La Gioconda, was the wife of Francesco del Giocondo.

  Shenk began to pity the museum goers. It was abundantly apparent they could not “see” what da Vinci had intended. Over the centuries, many had debated whether Mona was smiling in the portrait. The debate centered on the fact that da Vinci purposely left the corners of the woman’s mouth and eyes indistinct.

  But Shenk could see through the artist’s soft shadows. It told him this woman was not particularly happy that day. In fact, she was quite cheesed off at her husband. Maybe Leonardo intentionally blurred her emotions so as not to draw the wrath of Monsieur Del Giocondo. Shenk could only theorize; but he did know a more accurate representation of Mona’s feelings was depicted in an alternate reality. He needed to correct this situation immediately. After all, there can be no beauty without truth. Shenk’s mind raced like an Internet browser, concurring with Ralph Waldo Emerson who further supported his argument: “Beauty without expression is boring.” There could only be one conclusion. He must correct this oversight at once. He could not allow this illusion, people were being robbed of beauty!

  Shenk began to draw upon the collective energies of the minds around him for the purpose of inducing a trance. Eyes became glassy and mouths drooped open. Lukas seized the opportunity to sprint up to the painting. With one touch, the frame began to ripple like water in a pond. Poking his hand into a space no longer inhibited by molecular structure, Shenk switched paintings. The La Jaconde from another dimension now took form.

  Shenk frantically sought the room’s exit. In another second, museumgoers and security guards awoke from their daze. Their vision had cleared but their mouths remained agape. Mona Lisa stared back at them. She wore a distinct frown. A storm cloud wavered behind her, dispensing rain upon a mountain. A guard yelled for everyone to remain in place. But the perpetuator had already slipped out.

  A voice in the back of Shenk’s mind railed at him. Why weren’t you taking in the beauty of the American Wing? Many fine works of art handcrafted by the Cheyenne people lay ignored there, just like the fact of their slaughter. You were put here to do a job, not to become a tourist. The voice clearly reminded Shenk in not so many subtle words that business came before pleasure.

  His conflicted mind made him press on. He exited t
he museum long before NYPD arrived. Stunned visitors could only tell investigators they had felt strangely groggy mere seconds before the incident. Some theorized the painting had been defaced. Others argued their lapse in consciousness was not long enough to allow such a travesty. Investigators concurred, theorizing the painting had been switched with a fake. The mayor pressured the chief of police to connect the theft with the alleged Manhattan appearance of the Arrowhead Killer. He wanted to kill two birds with one stone.

  Just a few blocks away, Suzie Cheng locked eyes with a rear view mirror for the purpose of applying lipgloss. Her cameraman fiddled with his equipment, trying to ignore Cheng’s self-preoccupation. They were both seated in a white news van, hoping for a miracle. To cut the tension, the cameraman joked that she and her reflection had better get a room. Before the newswoman could reprimand him, an AM radio broadcast intervened. Suzie had been beaten to the punch.

  Reporters and police were already all over Fifth Avenue like ants on a picnic basket. She threw the van into high gear and floored the gas pedal, nearly missing several pedestrians. In her haste, she did not stop to take a second look at the woman in a print dress that ran down an adjacent sidewalk.

  Minutes later, Suzie joined the throng of media thrusting their microphones into the face of museum curator.

  Suzie squawked like a chicken. “Do you think the Arrowhead Killer did this, sir?”

  The stunned and perplexed curator could only mumble a few choice words in response. Those words were not fit for a prime time newscast.

  He dotted his face with a handkerchief in a nervous attempt to mop the sweat upon his brow. Cheng leered at him. She demanded at least one string of words she could air on Suzie Cheng’s Nightcast.