Blood Web: Caitlin Diggs Series #1

by Gary Starta

  Theoretically, the plan was sound, if you were hunting a grizzly bear. But Caitlin Diggs would be hunting a human. A teenage boy who was jacked up on elevated levels of seratonin and under the powerful influence of a mysterious power, no less. Rivers wasn’t sure how the drug ketamine would react with Schenker’s evolving physiology. If he were a cat, the drug should induce unconsciousness. But teenagers were known to use the sedative as a mood-enhancing drug at rave parties. So either Schenker would drop like an elephant or begin hip hopping like J Lo.

  Rivers’ apprehensions about the drug’s effects were well founded. She did not have to peruse medical journals to come to this conclusion. She had a gut instinct when it came to biochemistry. And she hoped her gut was wrong. She didn’t have time to stop and analyze where this instinct was emanating from. But it was not entirely without factual basis. Some of it could be attributed to distant memory. Some time ago, Agent Rivers sat in college class. A professor was speaking about ketamine hydrochloride. He labeled it as a dissociative anesthetic, meaning the drug distorts the user’s perception of sight and sound. “It also can separate the user from the environment by producing feelings of detachment,” the professor warned. “Hence, ketamine, also known as Special K to club goers, is often stolen and misused as a popular recreational drug.”

  The only Special K Deondra Rivers would be consuming would come in cereal form. But deep in the recesses of her mind, the knowledge of the lecture was retained. Like an inaudible voice, left on a dusty shelf somewhere in her distant memories, it begged to come to the foreground—to warn Deondra Rivers that ketamine might only make matters worse.

  ***

  Smoothing ruffled feathers is never an easy task, especially when they came in large quantities. After Diggs eased concerns at Middletown PD, she braced herself for a meeting with Marty Carlson. She had instructed plain-clothes cops to escort Marty to Newport Hospital. There, she would hope to convince both Marty and the hospital administration that her plan was sound. So she wanted to transfuse some of Carlson’s blood into hers…what’s the big deal?

  Doctor Dick Phillips has plenty of cause for reservation. To him it was not a big deal; it was a major deal, especially when Diggs requested to forgo all screening for diseases.

  “My job and those of this entire hospital could be put on the chopping block, not to mention the health threat this transfusion might pose to you.” The doctor allowed a dramatic pause. His unsympathetic blue eyes peered icily back at Diggs through a pair of silver-rimmed bifocals. Phillips’ unkempt and very white hair reminded Caitlin of Dick Van Dyke’s character on Diagnosis Murder. So this old fart needs convincing, Caitlin thought to herself. Well, she would make it easy for him. All she had to do was ease his conscience. Caitlin picked the shortest route: money. As soon as she alleviated the good doctor’s fear of a malpractice suit, his mood lightened and a small smile began to take shape at the corners of his very old and wrinkly mouth.

  “Yes, I’ll sign a waiver releasing you and the hospital from any and all possible forms of negligence. Just have your administration draw it up.” Diggs absorbed the doctor’s judgmental stare while she made an offer Phillips couldn’t refuse. Half of him seemed to enjoy the bizarre nature of Caitlin’s request, but the other half kept a wary eye trained on her. It was as if Phillips was expecting somebody to pounce out of a supply closet at any minute and announce he was on Candid Camera.

  The doctor acquiesced. Fortunately for Diggs, the hospital could perform a quick test to analyze blood type compatibility. Marty Carlson and Caitlin Diggs both shared the blood type A. Round one was over. The plan was still a go.

  Minutes later, it was time for round two. Diggs felt like she was literally getting into the ring. This time she would spar with Marty Carlson. His face was already beet red before she stepped through the door. It reminded her of borscht.

  Marty was an arrogant executive, not used to taking orders, but skilled at giving them. He deeply resented the agent’s request to uproot his family. His corporate mind could only interpret the action as a hostile takeover. Only the weak and infirm were subject to relocation and mergers. Marty Carlson never once envisioned himself as the weak link in Darwin’s food chain. How else could he have brazenly won the heart of the hottest girl in high school, obtained an Ivory League education, and afforded an eight-room mansion overlooking beach property? His mighty gesturing and posturing only made Caitlin feel sorry for him and his materialistic lifestyle. She would have to speak to Marty using a terminology he could understand. Her clinching statement: “You’re only giving me a few of drops of your blood Mr. Carlson, it’s not like you’re spending any of your hard earned cash.”

  Chapter 34

  Agent Diggs settled into the Carlson’s eight-room mansion on Purgatory Road, feeling like cheese in a mousetrap. She now carried the exact base sequence of ribonucleic acid found in Marty Carlson. It coursed through her veins via the blood transfusion performed by the friendly folks at Newport Hospital.

  By her side, lying between two lavender pillows on a white leather couch, was her blowgun. Agent Rivers supplied her with eight sodium bicarbonate acid-powered syringes along with the forty caliber, slate-black weapon.

  Rivers took delight in explaining the process. “Darts or paintballs can be propelled up to a maximum distance of 250 feet and at a velocity of 350 feet per second.” Her favorite part: Diggs would literally have to “blow” the darts into Schenker with the aid of a mouthpiece and muzzle guard. Deondra nearly doubled over from laughter several times during the training process at the absurdity of the situation. The image of Diggs launching a dart through a mouthpiece to save the world was just too comical.

  Rivers had to share at least one observation with her veteran partner: “And if this doesn’t work, well at least you can go play paintball with the neighborhood boys.” The laughter helped ease the tension of a stress-filled situation, at least for a moment.

  But now Diggs was alone in a big house. The fact that she could hear her heart beating confirmed her solitude. Rivers and local police had all vacated the nearby area in hopes of luring the killer to the house. They were stationed in cars about three blocks away thanks to Rivers’ dogged persistence. Diggs originally requested no surveillance whatsoever, but Rivers would not back down. She demanded to provide at least some modicum of backup for her new partner. Rivers reminded Caitlin of McAllister during the heated discussion. She was unrelenting. Any trace of humor over the blowgun had dissipated like the setting sun. Caitlin knew she would come to respect Deondra’s tenacity, just like Geoffrey’s.

  Night had fallen on Middletown by the time these thoughts had cleared Caitlin’s mind. A few crickets chirped in the waning warmth of early autumn, which was rapidly giving way to a brisk, cool breeze blowing in from the Sachuest Bay.

  The beauty of her surroundings conflicted greatly with the dire situation she had willingly put herself into. Beautiful oak cabinets graced the lilac-colored walls of the kitchen, which was equipped with the latest high-tech appliances. Ovens operated on timers and could bake dishes automatically. In the adjacent living room, oriental rugs, colored in deep hues of red and yellow, graced beautiful wood floors. Vases of purple and yellow flowers lay atop a curio housing a 52-inch flat screen TV. Yes, Caitlin was lying in a trap, but she was also lying in the lap of luxury.

  Daydreams continued to ebb and flow like ocean waves in her mind. How romantic it would have been to marry McAllister in this house. She was sure McAllister would have worked up the courage to propose by now. And what about all the glorious mansions they could have visited in Newport? The words “would have” and “could have” stuck in her throat. They brought back the reality of her situation.

  The realization acted like a cold slap of water upon her face. She needed to stop thinking like Caitlin Diggs and behave like Marty Carlson if she were to play a convincing role for Schenker. Maybe the DNA wouldn’t be enough. If so, she better get into character quick. She hastily tied her hair into
a ponytail and stuffed it into the collar of her shirt. The action seemed ludicrous, but if Lukas were peering through a window right now, her feminine hairdo would surely give her away.

  Next, Diggs attempted to engage the television set. But this took several frustrating moments. Three remotes lay on the coffee table in front of her. Which did what? She never realized watching TV was such a serious matter. After pressing at least eight buttons, Agent Diggs—acting like Marty Carlson—was ready to channel surf. “Yes, that’s what men do, isn’t?” she remarked to herself.

  She finally settled on a station airing a marathon of some show called Stargate SG-1. She wondered why the characters futilely continued to jump through a portal decorated with some nifty hieroglyphics. After watching a few shows, she discovered the Stargate team repeatedly found an unwelcome mat adorning nearly all the alien worlds they visited. And when that didn’t happen, a horrible malfunction manifested itself instead. A character named Samantha Carter continually dispensed theories on how to get her colleagues out of these predicaments. No matter how bad the situation, there always seemed to be a way to think oneself out of a jam. Diggs finally came to the conclusion that maybe this Carter woman could save everybody a whole lot of trouble if she simply recommended they no longer travel through the donut-shaped wormhole thing. But one part of her admired the show’s concept. Could one simply think their way out of life’s problems? Could real life operate in such a fashion? Diggs hoped so. She had a plan, but had no way of knowing if it would succeed.

  The name Carter triggered another memory for Diggs. She had met a Boston detective named Stanford Carter a few years back while working a case in Massachusetts. She became fast friends with Carter providing FBI assistance when a string of serial killings threatened Boston during its 375th anniversary celebration.

  She would never forget the memory of meeting Stanford for the first time. She found him at a crime scene, chanting while he stood over a dead body. The memory reminded her of the detective’s great resolve and optimistic nature. “It’s our job to make bad situations more palatable for the victims,” Carter would say.

  She promised herself she would visit the Boston detective once this case was solved. Maybe he could help her see some light in the dark void created by McAllister’s death.

  Two hours flew by. No sign of Schenker. Caitlin purposely left two of the living room windows slightly ajar to hear the approaching intruder. Only the sound of an occasional car engine or dog bark made its way into her plush accommodations. Her resolve for watching TV and lying in wait for Schenker waned. Her stomach growled, demanding immediate attention. Deciding she could greatly benefit from a change of scenery, Caitlin wandered into the futuristic kitchen. She had neither time nor inclination to cook. She theorized that even rich people eat fast food at one time or another. But the Carlson’s didn’t. There was no evidence that one frozen meal or a single piece of processed sandwich meat was ever allowed to touch the insides of their vast stainless steel double-door refrigerator.

  Now, time was of the essence. Caitlin had to think fast. Hunger was on the line. She opted for a quick fix. Diggs began raiding the cabinets, one by one. They had to keep junk food. Every American household did. Opening the last possible storage space, Diggs revelled in her finding. A bag of potato chips lay in the cupboard just above the dishwasher. Yes, by God, the Carlson’s were true Americans indeed!

  With potato chips in one hand and a remote in the other, Diggs continued to pretend she was Marty Carlson. The night was still young for a home invasion. It was only approaching midnight. There was still plenty of time for a young man like Lukas Schenker to make his move. Caitlin continued to theorize in cool contemplation.

  Then the phone rang. In a flash, it destroyed the agent’s entire attempt at maintaining a calm demeanor. It felt strangely comparative to the sharp drop in self-esteem Caitlin felt when she stepped on the scale after an all-night ice cream binge. No wonder she identified the feeling as negative. On the other end of the phone was a familiar voice of a whining relative. Caitlin did not appreciate the disturbance. Her voice became raised. And as her face flushed with anger, a shadow cast itself on the window.

  The intruder could only see her backside. Deciding another choice of entrance might provide a stealthier advantage, the stranger followed a stone path to the left side of the house. A trellis ladder was illuminated in the moonlight. It clung to the side of the house, allowing vines to wind their way to the rooftop. Now it would allow the intruder to make his way there.

  Once on the roof, the young man grinned. His luck was very good tonight. Right before him stood a ventilated skylight. And it was ajar. He began to measure the size of his torso to the aperture as a voice continued talking on the phone. He crouched down and began to squeeze his body through the window, attempting to take advantage of every single second of the occupant’s distraction. He dropped down, narrowly missing a mahogany dining table. Lukas Schenker could barely believe his good fortune. He was inside the house of the enemy and not one single alarm had sounded. That was because Diggs had them all disengaged. She didn’t want to spook the killer.

  So far, Diggs’ plan was proceeding as expected, but there was just one hitch. She had still not disconnected her cell phone call. She was painfully unaware of her new guest. And as she continued to talk, Lukas continued to walk, straight toward the kitchen and its connecting parlor. He could hear the sound of a TV intermingled with a voice. He still believed his prey was a Carlson. Diggs suddenly became annoyed at competing with the TV. She muted the sound. And as she did, she caught a reflection in the screen. Lukas Schenker in the flesh!

  She threw the cell down on a pretty lavender pillow and reached for her weapon. Schenker enjoyed the suspense. He wanted to prolong his victim’s agony for as long as possible. Why not? He was invincible. And whatever type of gun his latest victim was reaching for wasn’t going to change the result. Someone was going to lose a life tonight.

  He continued plodding along the floor like some sort of zombie in a B-grade horror flick. Caitlin pressed the mouthpiece to her lips. She started to blow. Only a weak gasp of air released from her lungs. She was in the middle of hyperventilating. She took a deep breath again and attempted to blow. This time the dart released from the gun, but missed its intended target wildly. A crash ensued. A gold-framed mirror shattered in protest of the projectile. The dart dug itself into the wall behind the broken fixture. A dog started barking wildly. The dart hung there just a few meters away from Schenker whose mind raced to analyze the situation.

  How could this son of a bitch be so well prepared? Who carries a gun with them in their living room? And as his brain began to link up to Diggs’ nervous system, he smelled a rat. Why this wasn’t even a Carlson. Who had the audacity to trick him? He began to seethe. Vowels and consonants flowed from his mouth in free form. There was no discernible pattern of speech. As far as Diggs knew it wasn’t English or German. Maybe it was Atlantean, but it sure as hell didn’t sound human!

  Caitlin worked feverishly to take advantage of her guest’s bewilderment. She placed the mouthpiece back to her lips and blew again. Schenker ignored her and headed for the damaged wall. Caitlin knew what he was planning. He was going to turn her weapon against her, to stab her with her own dart.

  But in the middle of his attempt to dislodge the projectile from the wall, another dart came to rest in the fleshiest part of his upper right arm. He yelped. The dog outside barked. Schenker’s eyes rolled. His head fell limply toward his chest as though he were a marionette and a chord had been cut. Diggs was just about to celebrate her victory, but then things became even stranger.

  A wind from out of nowhere began whipping about the room. Paintings toppled off their hooks. Vases fell from the curio and shattered on the paneling below. Potato chips evacuated their bag and fluttered toward the ceiling like butterflies. There was no doubt about it. The ketamine was reacting with Schenker’s abnormal body chemistry.

  Rainbow colors began to
form around his perimeter sending shards of blinding ultraviolet light into Diggs’ eyes. She quickly became disoriented. As her head swam, she caught a dark outline of something taking shape directly overhead. She dug into her vested jacket and pulled out her service revolver. She could no longer afford to play it safe. Pointing the gun with shaking hands at the ceiling above her, Diggs waited for the right moment to fire. She aimed her weapon to the left and then to the right, attempting to catch the fading ember of colored light above her. The moment came and went without a single shot being fired. There was no longer anyone else in the room. Somehow Lukas Schenker had vanished into thin air.

  A neighbor rapped his hand furiously on the front entrance. “Are you alright in there?” he cried. The beam from his flashlight penetrated the crescent-shaped glass adorning the top of the door. His dog lunged in an attempt to free herself from her leash. Both neighbor and dog drew on their natural instincts. They knew an intruder had been inside. Diggs shakily made her way to the entrance, keeping an eye fixed on Lukas Schenker’s former position.

  Keeping one hand on her gun, she threw the door open, alarming the startled neighbor. “It’s alright, sir. I’m FBI. An intruder is on the loose. Did you happen to see anyone out there?” But Caitlin Diggs knew the answer before the words left her lips. She was just following protocol. She knew Schenker had somehow pulled a Houdini or possibly no longer existed in corporeal form. Either way, shivers continued to run up and down her spine, and that electricity seemed to conclude the hunt was not over.

  Lukas Schenker still existed. If the tranquilizer had worked, Schenker should have been slumped on the Carlson’s very expensive parquet floor, but the fact he disappeared, led the agent to believe he had accessed some sort of newfound power. Maybe he could enter and exit another dimension at will. This could possibly explain how he was able to alter the da Vinci. In the ensuing minutes, police sirens began to wail. Rivers and the local entourage were on their way. But before they could arrive, Ross Fisher came bounding through the open front door. Diggs held up her hand, alerting the neighbor that he was a friend.