by S. M. Nolan
She slapped toast on a plate and tore Maggie from her trance, “Mandy's all I have left. You know that. I have to protect her no matter what. But I can't just abandon you. I just—I don't know what to do!”
Ashley's desperation clawed at Maggie's throat. She didn't want to be hunted like an animal, forced to flee her home and hide, nor have her best friends forced into the cross-fire. Maggie was lost.
She spoke with hints of defeat, “My only hope's that Det—Russell, can help us.”
Ashley gave a cynical laugh, “I don't think he could find his way out of a wet paper-bag. How's one guy supposed to protect us?”
“It was your idea to call him,” she reminded.
“Yeah, 'cause the other option was you sitting in jail. You killed someone last night, Maggie!”
Her tone stung. “You don't think I'm some kind of blood thirsty—”
Ashley waved dismissively, “God, no! But what happens if this guy can't help?” Maggie looked away in thought. “Eat. I'm sorry it's not more, but we need to go shopping.”
“Ash, you don't have to—”
“Maggie,” she pled sincerely. “Just shut up and eat.”
Maggie relented at a stomach rumble. Though her appetite had long evaporated, the need for sustenance moved her toward a plate. The pair ate amid a silence neither felt brave enough to break. Maggie did what she could to help clean before waiting her turn to shower.
She folded her blanket with mechanized arms, placed it atop the spare pillow beside her. Distant water ricocheted off cast-iron. The muffled sounds eked through the closed door and along the short hall to give rhythm to Maggie's movements.
She eyed the door with a curious paranoia, then pulled her pack forward and reached inside. The holstered pistol slid out. It's strap unbuttoned with a volume that grated her teeth. She double checked the door; nothing.
Stainless-steel gleamed with a fearfully cold memory of the man's death. Maggie's breaths quickened, threatened to suck her back in time. She forced herself to remain in the present, focused on the weapon.
She looked it over, hands trembling. A thumb slid a latch up beside the grip. The magazine plopped into her lap. Her heart jumped, head whipped to check the door. It remained closed, distant water still beating a metallic tempo.
Copper-headed ammunition gleamed upward with a radial reflection of the room. Her face stared back as a miniaturized caricature. The small mass chilled her thighs but sparked something warm deep within her. It kept the cold at bay.
She breathed steadier, pulled back the top-slide to examine the breech from the grip's end. Once released, it sprang back with a loud click. Her heart jumped again, but her body remained still.
She quelled panic easier, ran a finger along the slide. “Springfield Armory” sat ahead of the cascading letters “TRP” near the hammer. “Springfield, Geneseo, IL USA” and a model number engraved above the trigger gave it a polished, professional look.
Maggie took a deep breath, raised the unloaded weapon to examine its sights. She focused through the window, past the road. Her index-finger grated the carved numbers with a clear imprint to her skin.
This was clearly a tool whose sole purpose was taking life. Could she ever need such a tool?
The previous night's memory cast out all doubt. She might have no choice but to need it. At least with it, she was nearer to even-ground. She didn't know how to use it yet, but she could learn—and if she could learn, she could overcome her fears.
Once again, she plunged into the previous night. A different scenario played this time. Once more she was attacked, but now she hid beneath cabinets to peer out, end the fight quickly. The opposition to reality crept through her with a simple epiphany; she no longer wanted to be unprepared.
While by no means a killer, a conscious choice to live in fear or take action arose. The decision to act felt as instinctive as her reactions the night before. She vowed not to be caught by surprise, resolved to seek Russell's aid, no matter what lay ahead.
Her phone vibrated forward on the coffee table, nagging her. With an intuitive motion, she slid the weapon back into the holster and replaced it in her bag. She snatched up the phone, answered it.
“Maggie? It's Russell. We've I-D'd the men from last night. I'd like to meet with you and go over what I've learned, see if there isn't some connection you can make.”
“Uh, yeah. Sure,” she replied, oddly comforted by his voice. She shifted the phone in her hand, “How about the shop in an hour or so?”
“Sounds good. See you then.”
He hung up. Maggie exhaled weary exhaustion. The bathroom door opened and Ashley appeared in a towel, her hair glistening flat and pointed in random directions.
“Shower's free. Dunno how long the water will last though.”
Maggie grabbed her pack, headed for the bathroom. She stopped before entering, “Russell wants to meet us at the shop in an hour or so.”
Ashley nodded and disappeared into her room. Maggie showered quickly. Once the two were both dressed, Ashley locked up the house and followed Maggie to the backseat of a police-cruiser.
“You know where we're going?” Maggie asked politely.
“Yes, Ma'am,” one officer replied. “51st Street, correct?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Ashley snickered, “He's not a cab driver, Maggie.”
The officer laughed with a look to his partner, “Yeah, we don't get paid that much.”
Maggie's face reddened. The car pulled forward. “Sorry, this is just a little strange to me.”
“You're tellin' us,” the second officer said. “Normally our passengers aren't so pleasant.”
The two men chuckled. Ashley's eyes narrowed. “Do you get many?”
“'Least one every night,” the driver said. “Though usually more.”
“Lots of drunks like to try and drive and get pretty pissed when we pick them up,” the other cop explained.
“It can be a handful.”
“Yeah, alcoholism's really funny,” Ashley said sarcastically.
“Nah, just the drunks,” the first officer joked, missing her disgust.
“I'm sure,” Ashley said combatively. “Especially when they're dying on the way to jail, right?”
Maggie cringed and hid her face. The two officers exchanged a glance and went quiet. The ride carried on amid an awkward silence that made Maggie eager to throw herself from the moving vehicle. When they finally arrived at the shop, it took all of her strength not to bolt in panic.
She followed Ashley to the door, uneasy about standing in the open, “Was that really necessary?”
Ashley's eyes narrowed above a venomous tongue, “I fucking hate cops, Maggie. You know the shit they've given me. Like I'm some fucking burnt-out 'cause I like to get stoned and draw. Fuck them, and fuck their bullshit. I'm a partner in a successful business and I make more—”
“Ash,” Maggie pled desperately with a look over her shoulder.
“Yeah, alright, fine,” Ashley pushed the door open. “But I fucking hate cops.”
Maggie was relieved to hurry in and shut the door, “You know it has less to do with their uniforms than what they said.”
She followed Ashley to the counter, set down her coat and pack. Maggie gave a quick glance at the front window; two passersby cast shadows through it at them.
“Yeah. Alright. Maybe I went over-the-top,” Ashley shrugged. “But, c'mon, it wasn't funny.”
Maggie's fingers shook subtly as she unzipped her coat, “They're cops, not comedians. You just take it a harder because of your dad.”
“Yeah, maybe, but—” Ashley's phone rang. Maggie's heart jumped. “It's Mandy.”
She answered and stepped away to flip on the shop's lights. Maggie swallowed hard to steady her nerves and switch on the computer behind the counter. The bell on the door rang. Maggie whipped 'round to see Russell enter, a backpack on one shoulder and a briefcase on the other.
“Didn't mean to startle you,”<
br />
She steadied herself on the counter, “It's not your fault.”
He managed a weak smile, “It's good to see you, at least.”
“Really not sure I can say the same. No offense.”
Her lips quivered in an attempt to smile. She gave up, sat on a stool. Ashley returned from the back room, eyes on her phone, “Mandy's on her way back. Her class got out early so she's—” She spotted Russell, “Oh great, you're here.”
He cast Maggie a curious look, “Yeah, just walked in.”
“Well? Can we go back to our lives now?”
Maggie flailed a hand as it rose to her forehead, “Don't mind her, she just hates your uniform.”
Russell acknowledged with a nod, “Oh, blue's not your color.” He set his briefcase on the counter, sat down, “I understand.”
“Really?” she chided with a raised brow.
“Ashley, just stop it,” Maggie pled, fingers white against her head. She bit at her lip-ring with fresh tension.
“No, it's alright. I understand.” He looked to Ashley, “I'm the scum of the universe, right? 'Cause I'm a cop? I know how we look; doughnut powdered, tax-wasting bile flooding the streets. Hell, most days we're too busy getting off on scaring some poor bastard with a dead tail-light to notice the half-dozen murders. Fuck, when I think about it, I don't really like us either.”
Ashley's eyes were ablaze above her flaring nostrils.
Russell leaned toward her nearly whispering, “But here's the thing… my gun may look like it functions solely as an extension of my penis, but it can also save your friend's life. Yours too. So let's all pretend to get along, okay?”
Maggie's jaw clenched. Her eyes darted between the two. They stared one another down. Maggie chewed her lip-ring, glad to see Ashley visibly trying to restrain her outburst.
In a flash that might have ended Russell's life, Ashley doubled over in laughter. Russell smiled, glanced between Ashley's hysteria and Maggie's neurotic perplexity.
Ashley straightened, forced away her laughter, “Fine, you can stay. For now.”
“Thanks.” He opened his briefcase, “Back to business.”
Maggie breathed easier, enough to still her hands. Russell set aside a file-folder, produced two, enlarged portraits. He laid them side-by-side on the counter. Maggie recognized the first as the man that had attacked her. The second, Russell said, was the man he'd killed in his home.
“The guy in your apartment.” Russell opened the file folder. “Was Ryan Bould. Born in Yorktown, Virginia, December '85. Raised by his grandparents from age three. Enlisted in the military at eighteen. His commanding officers had him thrown in the brig several times before he was dishonorably discharged for insubordination.”
Russell handed a sheet to Maggie, whom examined it curiously.
“After that Bould disappeared. No reports of anything. No hospital records. No arrests. No parking tickets. Nothing in his name.”
Ashley leaned over the counter, “Sounds like he went off the grid.”
Maggie stilled her hand to relinquish the paper.
Russell agreed, “That, or he was somehow connected with this man.” He slid the second photo forward, centered it between them. “Johnathan Rowe, born to a prostitute in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, February 1980. His mother married a long-time client, had two more kids, and ended up dead after Rowe stabbed her and his step-father. He was in and out of institutions from the age of eight until his release in '05. Physical and sexual abuse is conjectured as the primary cause of his behavioral problems, which ceased after he murdered his parents.”
“Fuckin' sick people, man,” Ashley said, crumpling her face up and setting the paper down.
Russell nodded, “Like Bould, after Rowe's release, he disappeared. There's no trace of him in the whole damned country. So either these two men were working together after they disappeared, or they were both living under assumed identities.” Russell shuffled through a stack of papers in the folder, “Evidence points to the former.”
He handed over an enlarged photograph of the Omega tattooed on his attacker's left wrist.
“What's this?” Maggie asked.
“The Greek symbol Omega.”
“We know that,” Ashley said with rolling eyes. She handed the photo to Maggie, “It's on his wrist?”
“It's on both of them. Have you seen it before, or worked on one?”
“Not that I can recall,” Maggie admitted. Ashley shrugged.
He looked between them, “Do you know anything other than the usual information?”
Ashley thought for a minute. The others noticed with expectation. She saw their interest, explained, “Aside from being the last letter of the Greek alphabet, used in everything from physics to bio-chemistry, it also holds biblical symbolism. God is the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and end of all times. A quick search of the internet'll probably point you to a thousand different conspiracy sites all with that as the tag-line. The only other thing I know's that it's a cult symbol.”
“How do you mean?” Russell asked with intrigue.
“Cults tend toward certain symbols to show their devotion to any one of its millions of meanings. I mean, how many cults are there dedicated to events like Halloween, Easter, etcetera—that carry out pagan or satanic rituals? I mean, there's no doubt it's a cult symbol, people worshiping the Alpha-Omega view of God. It's probably something to do with that.”
“I'm sorry, I'm not seeing the connection,” Russell admitted.
Ashley shifted her weight, “Tattoos have been known through-out history as tribal markings. Only in the last century have they become mainstream. Russians still consider them a sign of criminal history, because the only place you can get them's in prison.” She shifted back, “These guys have done some time, disappeared only to resurface later with identical symbols and intentions? Sounds like some kind cult or gang. My guess is cult, it fits the mythology. Christ, what kind'a cop are you anyway?”
Maggie's lips pursed with despair. Russell considered Ashley's words with a curious expression. There was a twisted sense to it. “So you think Omega is some kind of cult?”
She shrugged, “Something like that, but I'm just an artist, remember?”
Maggie involuntarily groaned, “It has logic, yeah, but how's it involve us? I mean, what'd we do wrong?”
She blew an irritated breath, “Mags, you know these kinds of people. They're insane. Think if you step on a crack you're breaking their God's mother's pelvis or something. And fuck-all knows we can't have that! They're wack-jobs, Maggie, plain and simple.”
Russell titled his head in agreement. Maggie caught it, “You think it's possible?”
He shrugged, “Maybe. We're sure this has something to do with Ryusaki, right?”
She eyed him, “Ryusaki? But how does he—”
“The tattoos,” Ashley intoned. “Ryusaki's and the other guy. The interrogation linked you.”
Russell agreed. “I went up to the university this morning. As early as I could. They pointed me to a professor of symbology. After he seemed convinced it was an ancient language, he pointed me to a doctor of linguistics named Jackson. When I showed him the picture he seemed confused. He told me he recognized the language as pre-Sumerian Cuneiform, but he couldn't decipher it. He said it's probably a lost dialect, either incorrect or so old the translations are lost.”
“He didn't try to translate it?” Maggie asked skeptically.
“He had one book on Cuneiform, but one of the symbols wasn't there. He said translating it piece by piece wouldn't matter because the missing word would shift the passage's entire meaning.”
“So it's a dead end?” Maggie asked, dejected.
“For now, anyhow.”
“Well you've got a new lead at least,” Ashley said with a hopeful gleam. The pair were perplexed. “Ryusaki's tattoo. If it had something to do with the attack, Chen-Lee may know something.”
Maggie suddenly remembered Chen-Lee, “Yeah, but he's in L.A. and we ha
ve no way to contact him.”
“Find a way.”
Russell plotted his next move, “I can contact a couple people, but we should try to confirm if it is cult science first.”
“I doubt the OCA would know anything more,” Maggie admitted.
The bell over the door rang and Mandy stepped in, “Freezing out there.” She looked up, “How's it going?”
Russell and Maggie looked to one another before settling on Ashley. She checked her phone's clock, noted it was almost noon.
“I'll bring her up to speed,” Ashley said.
Mandy asked hungrily, “Will you head out and grab lunch?”
“Chinese?” Maggie asked with obvious reticence.
“Sure.”
Ashley scoffed, “Maybe he can give you a ride so you don't have to take the El,” She turned to follow Mandy to the back room.
“He is named Russell,” he taunted. Ashley ignored him. He looked to Maggie, “Where're you headed?”
“Chinese place across town, you know it?”
Russell chuckled, “Half of Chinatown's across town.”
Maggie smiled at his steel nerves, “I'll show you.”
Russell slid the photographs and papers back into his briefcase and shut it. She grabbed her bag and coat, followed him into the cold afternoon.
“Wait here a minute,” he said past the door.
He walked a few cars down to the cruisers. Maggie bundled her jacket against the cold, threw the pack over her shoulder. Her eyes darted nervously along the street. She shifted her weight, blew a plume of air, and watched a couple hunker down against the wind.
Traffic whizzed and whipped by, blew smog-filled gusts at them. Russell returned and motioned her to his Impala.
“What was that all about?”
He fiddled with his briefcase in the backseat, shifting files to his backpack. “Professional courtesy.”
“What?”
He slid behind the wheel, “They'll stay back to watch the shop while we head out. I didn't want them calling in our movement. If someone's watching us, they might be tipped off by a scanner.”
