by Kevin Wright
Things rustled occasionally in the cages lining the walls like some giant subterranean kennel. In point of fact, it was a giant subterranean kennel.
“His career I have followed since even before his arrival,” she said. Even in the dark depths, her eyes shone a pale jade green. Alluring. Tempting. They asked questions. Baaad Questions. Gooooood questions. He wanted very badly to answer those questions as he followed by her side like a remora. His wife would never approve of those questions let alone the answers.
“Dearly, I would love to taste him.” She glided down the dank, close hallway. Like a panther, she moved, even, fluid, silent, powerful. With this fluidity, this grace, she walked like no other woman walked. Marilyn Monroe could have walked this good on her best day. Maybe.
“Now tell me, Jamesss.”
He loved the way she said his name, the way she held the ‘S’ sound between her tongue and her teeth and then let it die away, slowly.
“What can you possibly do for me?” She paused, a hand on her curved hip, and turned toward him. She was beautiful. Dark. Mysterious. Sweat beaded on his shiny forehead. He ran a hand through his mass of curly brown hair.
“Uh, um, uh,” James managed, trying to keep the drool from spilling from his gaping mouth.
She closed it for him with a gentle push up on his chin from her small, porcelain hand. Her dress twinkled in the dark like some tropical sea alive beneath the stars. Her perfume was exotic, the scent of morphine and euthanasia, a sharp contrast to the foul tunnel air.
“Oh, Jamesss, you must control yourself.”
James Perry the Third was fighting desperately, and with little success, to control himself. Taking a deep breath, he counted to ten and then looked around. He was really sweating now. The cages lined the walls from the floor to the ceiling, three high, as far as the eye could see. They were all full. He just knew it. Heat from their imprisoned bodies fouled the air, creating a thin yellow mist of sweat and piss and shit that crawled along the floor like squiggling, rotting screwworms. “Hope they’re not all voters,” he said. “Ha-ha, uh … ha. Ahem, well, Lil, the thing is, you see, he’s become a problem.”
“Really?” Her eyes went wide with surprise. She sauntered over to one of the cages. A man’s arm hung limp outside the bars. She stroked it with her fingertip. “Hmmmmm.”
“Ah, well, at first, it was good for the city, y’know? Killing the deadbeats and troublemakers. But now he’s killing people with respectable jobs. People who pay taxes. People who vote. They’re starting to notice. Why, the Tribune ran an entire series.”
“That’s sooooooo interesting.” She lifted the caged man’s arm up and then let it drop. It banged against the bars of the cage below. She giggled. “Shhhh, he’s sleeping.” She sauntered on down the line of cages. James hurried after. “Poor, poor James, what is your point? Surely, you didn’t come to me to speak of newspapers and taxes.”
James stammered when he spoke, especially in her presence. To be fair, most men did. “My point is, uh,” James said, “we need to do something about him. Serial killers attract a lot of attention. What if the feds get involved? I’m just looking out for you. For us. Y’know? It wouldn’t be a problem if you were willing to, ah, change me?”
“Ohhhh. I understand, Jamessss.” She slid up close to him, her hot scent enveloping him. “This is an election year. My, how time stands still while your life flies by. I’m so sorry, James, but I still need a man. And I still need you to be that man. No, James, not another word of this.” She stalked to another cage. “OOOOh. This one.”
She clapped her hands and from down the dark curved hall emerged four women. All were beautiful in their own way. They all moved like Lil did. Maybe they weren’t quite as beautiful, or mysterious, but they were close. It would depend on the beholder. James stepped aside as they glided past, their evening gowns tailored perfectly to their forms. Heels click-scratched on the bedrock floor.
“This one, girls, and be gentle.”
To the cage they strode as one; Lil stepped back.
Their combined perfumes cleared the palate of the reek fouling the tunnel. One of the four stepped forth, an Asian beauty, withdrawing a key from within her gown, and unlocked the cage. She dropped the key back, with a snarl, to parts regrettably unknown.
James gulped.
Then she reached into the cage and pulled a man out by his hair. The other three stepped forth and helped.
“Ich … ni … san,” said the one, and they yanked him free.
For a second the filthy man wriggled feebly. Then he looked up, locked eyes with Lil, and fell limp. The four hoisted him bodily, careful of their gowns, and followed Lil down the long hallway. “James, hon, be a dear and shut the cage, please?”
The door crashed shut, and James waddled after them. Down the hall for what seemed like ages, past innumerable cages, he huffed after the five ladies. When they moved, it was like slow motion. Smooth. Their smoothness belied a hasty speed, however, as the sweating, huffing-puffing James knew.
“Hurry James,” Lil’s voice echoed.
James scurried after them into a parlor, closed the door, and turned. Already, they had the man splayed out upon the table. Each of the four grasped one of his limbs. Lil straddled the man’s back. Her small, delicate hands kneaded the flesh of his back, pressing and pulling, twisting. Lil froze James with a glance, a smirk.
The man moaned softly.
“Now, James, I understand that we have a problem. I understand the solution to the problem. So what is the problem?” She was massaging the man’s shoulders now.
“Uh, I thought — what?”
“The problem, James. Stay focused.”
“I thought that you would take care of it. You know him, right?”
“Dear Jamessss,” her jade eyes sparkled with mirth, “I am not acquainted with him, per say. I am more acquainted with his tool. Though his work. Hmmmmm? I am familiar with that as well. You don’t expect me to do all of this, do you? James?”
“Uh, well, I thought, you could get someone, y’know?”
Lil crawled down the man’s body, now working his lower back and buttocks. She paused for a moment, thinking. “Hmm, you were right to bring this to my attention, James. Something must be done. I have had my people looking into it for some time, of course. They have all been … unsuccessful. None of my people will touch it, now. I could force them, but that presents a moral dilemma. I could go outside? Billy might—” She pouted for a moment then smiled. “No. He’s still not speaking to me. You’ll just have to find someone on your own.” She continued working, digging, rhythmically.
“I’ve had my best people on it for months,” James whined. “They can’t find this guy. They’ve got nothing on him. Even Winters can’t find him. It has to be done soon, Lil. The public requires it, no, demands it.”
“Well, James, I never. I do so love it when you get forceful. You do sway me so.” She dug her nails into the man’s hamstrings. “I suppose, since I’m in such a giving mood, I could give you something.”
“What Lil?” His heart leaped, visions of immortality dancing before his eyes.
“Information,” she said.
James’ shoulders slumped. “Oh...”
“Your serial killer is a heroin junky.” Lil worked the calves now. “Billy Rubin makes a delivery to him every Sunday night, after sundown. That’s what Ilyana says, and she’s very reliable. Aren’t you honey?”
Ilyana growled.
“They rendezvous at a different location every Sunday. Billy’s soooo bad. He’s the only one who’ll deal to him. Very hush-hush. Everyone else is too afraid. Billy fronts a tough crew.”
“Why are they afraid, Lil?” asked James. “They — they’re already dead.”
“They’re afraid of that big,” she dug her nails into the man’s back, “BAD,” she dug in again, “tool in his pocket,” Lil’s eyes lit up. “I just had a thought, James. I’ll have Ilyana find out where Billy’s meeting him tomorrow.
She’s very persuasive.”
“Okay?” James nodding. “But, how does that help me?”
“You’ll send word out to all your trouble-makers,” Lil said. “Winters, the priest, whoever. Something’s bound to come out of this for the good if they all come together. Send out the word, James. You’ll be like Paul Revere. One if by land, or is it two by … oh, I can never remember.” She frowned. “You just remember, though, James, no matter what happens, the artist’s tool is mine. The gun. Bring it to me. Then,” she said ‘then’ as though it were some far off mystical land, “you can have whatever you want. Now off with you. I’ll call you.”
“O—okay.”
“Oh, and James, be a dear and close the door on your way out.”
* * * *
Something was wrong with the place, horribly wrong. He pushed on, careful where he walked for the footing in this realm was treacherous, slick. The tortured wails of human infants slaughtered his ears, screeching up and down his spine. The clash of the metal cages in which they were imprisoned shattered his nerves. Sweat began to trickle down his back. He didn’t want to be here. He shouldn’t be here.
“I need a beer. I need many beers.”
It was a maze. A maze where mad harpies reigned supreme, chattering, clucking at one another, fighting and screeching in tearing-misery. It was a maze a man could wander forever, searching for what he desired and never find it.
Exotic flora littered the walls of passageways. Some were beautiful in a foreign way, some offensive to both sight and smell. The thought of touching, or even tasting one; a shudder ran down his spine. The babies wailed, imprisoned as they were, their tiny arms reaching out for the solace of their harpy-mothers. They keened and screeched with delight, poking and prodding and grasping.
Carmine always felt out of place when he laid foot within the produce department.
“Who the hell listens to a fortune cookie?” he asked of no one in particular. He pushed his carriage down the aisle and it swerved. “Broken frickin’ wheel. Oh, excuse me, miss … miss? Ah, miss, could you—? Excuse me, okay. Never mind, I’ll wait. Oh, don’t trouble yourself on my account, lady. Stepping to the left would be way too strenuous for someone built like you. I should know. Blob. Yeah, I said it. What are you gonna do?”
Carmine expounded aloud some more, but the gaggle of chattering-mad-harpy-shoppers would not move or even acknowledge his existence. In the middle of the aisle, like cholesterol in one of his own arteries, they stood congesting, occluding, ignoring.
“Hmmmm.” Carmine looked around. Buying and preparing food was so much more strenuous than takeout. It was as though he were de-evolving. “Thousands of years of food service evolution crumbling before me to dust.”
“Cha Chi’s, right down the street. Two blocks. A short ride. Six bucks a pop, no bitchy old ladies, no screaming babies. Mmmmmm, spicy burrito wrap, no cooking, drive through, don’t have to leave car … no. NO!”
He steeled himself and grabbed a head of broccoli, and then just stared at it as though it were a head of broccoli. “Oh, how the obese have fallen.” He dropped it in his carriage. “Health food’s one thing, dealing with the people who eat it’s another.” He needed to quit this place, fast. The vegetables, the fruits, the grains, vitamins, they were closing in on him, suffocating—
“Excuse me, ladies,” Carmine said. “EXCUSE ME.”
The ladies with their babies were still chatting, still ignorant of the existence of other shoppers.
“Fine.” Carmine lowered his shoulder and slammed his carriage straight through theirs, clanking and causing their children to continue screaming bloody murder.
“Well, I never!”
“Some people!”
“Really!”
“What’s a fine piece of meat doing—”
Huffing, Carmine sprinted to the front of the department, focused, not looking back once, then skidded to a halt. Warmth blanketed his soul. He had found it. It was comfort; it was a comrade at arms in an enemy land. Amongst all forms of produce, it was the sole entity Carmine could name friend, the mighty potato.
“Hmmm, red bliss, russet, you’re so bad.”
“Did you … were you talking to me, sir?” A produce clerk turned, knocking over a bag.
Carmine dove forward, shortstop quick after a grounder, catching it, holding it, caressing it.
“Sir?” The clerk looked down. “Are you injured?”
“Treat them well, my son,” Carmine said, a tear glistening in the corner of his eye. He wrestled himself up and handed over the bag.
“I thought I heard — thank you.” The clerk took the bag and stacked it on top of the display with one hand. His other was jammed into his pocket.
“No problem.” Carmine pushed his carriage onward.
“Excuse me, sir, but, are you an ambulance driver?”
Carmine cringed, a reaction built over his seventeen-year-career. Calling an EMT an ambulance driver was like calling a surgeon a butcher. He did do more than just drive an ambulance: he assessed patients, provided first aid, CPR, mental and emotional support, carried fat old people downstairs, carried fat old people upstairs, and a whole lot more. “Uh, yeah. More or less. How’d you know?”
Now that pleasantries were dispensed with, the guy was going to tell him about how he had chopped his fingers off in a freakish blender accident, or about his skin problem, or his ass problem, or his ass-skin problem. It never failed, and it was never a hot twenty-five-year-old swimsuit model with breast pain. Never. Ever.
“Oh,” the clerk’s shoulders were hunched over like vulture wings, or he’d have been much taller, “sometimes I’m at calls and I watch. I have a police scanner I listen to. I — I’ve seen you. A few times. You help people.” He brushed his long greasy hair from his face.
“Ah, yeah,” Carmine said. “Guess I do stick out in the crowd, in all directions.” He pointed to the vast assortment of vegetables he had amassed in his carriage. “Trying to fix that a bit, anyways.”
“I was wondering if you could … help me?” The clerk closed his eyes a moment, a slight spasm shaking his body. In pain? He giggled, waving a hand. “Oh, never mind, sir. Have a … have a nice, nice day.” The clerk turned, continued stacking potatoes one-handed, with engineer-like precision.
Chapter 17.
“COME ON, COME ON.”
Carmine jiggled his keys, trying to untangle them and balance the three paper grocery bags in his arms. The screen door banged against his side.
“We need to talk,” said a voice from behind.
Carmine jumped. “God-damn, don’t do that!”
It was Detective Winters.
“Uh, yeah, talk, okay,” Carmine said. “Jesus, almost gave me a heart attack. Here, hold these for second, will ya?” He handed the three bags to Detective Winters, untangled his keys, and unlocked the door. Carmine then stepped inside and clambered up the stairs.
Detective Winters watched him then followed.
“Just drop them on the kitchen table.”
Detective Winters strode into the kitchen and dropped the bags down on top of the mass of newspapers covering the table.
“So, what do you want, detective?” Carmine rummaged through the bags. His house smelled of garlic; he only noticed it when he first walked in.
“How well does he endure?”
“What?” Grimacing, Carmine pulled broccoli from inside of his bags. “Who?”
“I am not here to play games.” Detective Winters’ pale blue eyes glowed fierce.
“You sure? I’ve got Atari.”
“Peter. The boy. I can smell him on you.” Detective Winters took a deep breath, his eyes widening. “You have been around him sometime in the past … twelve hours. How does he endure the change?”
“Better than most, barely touching him.”
Detective Winters nodded. “In any case, he must be put down.”
“Put down?” Carmine growled. “What, is he a fucking dog?”
“Worse. A rabid one.”
“Like Old Yeller?” Carmine asked. “He ain’t even biting, yet. Jesus, you fucking cops.”
“I do not enjoy certain aspects of my position.”
“Really? Remember, I’ve seen you work, detective,” Carmine said. “I’ve seen it all. So don’t tell me you don’t fucking enjoy it.”
“I do what is necessary because no one else dares do it. I thought you, alone, might understand that,” Detective Winters said. “Would you, Carmine, delve into the blackest of arts? Bend the spines of dark tomes that best lay dormant. Would you perform the Mass of Saint Secaire? And mean it? Sell your soul for a pittance of the occult, that you may one day glean use for that knowledge? For good? I would have once, willingly. And I did, and now I do so in spite of what I know. It is my legacy, it seems.”
“You’re my hero,” Carmine said.
“Nothing may affect my work, Carmine, and nothing so ephemeral as hope. Hope is for cowards and liars, and you are neither, though you play at both,” Detective Winters said. “You understand this better, probably, even than I. When the night comes, and you are alone, you know that what I say is true. There is no cure. You tried harder than any to find it. And you failed where all others failed. There is no shame in it, but the boy will die. The boy must die.”
“His name’s Peter.”
“Now it is but a matter of time and of corpses.”
“You knew the other night.” Carmine launched out of his chair toward the refrigerator.
“Yes.”
“If you knew, why didn’t you do it then?”
“I will explain my actions to you this once, and only this once, because he is your friend.” Detective Winters raised a finger. “I was occupied with an investigation. You were there. It took priority. I had not the time to deal with one infected little boy. Besides, it was too early to tell. If it were but the rot—”
