by B Branin
* * * * *
Before getting on with my mission, I popped into a small grocer and picked up a bottle of wine and a hotdog. You couldn’t carry out a vendetta hungry after all and the wine would sooth my injured body. The collection of wounds I had gathered this week were growing, the most recent being a wicked burn the makeshift noose had left across my throat. Though I craved something stronger than wine, I wanted to be at the top of my game when facing off against Livingstone.
I used my switchblade to pop the cork on my medication. The cherry wine was low quality and unpleasantly tart. It took half the bottle to even start numbing the aches but at least the horrid flavor kept drowsiness at bay. As I flagged down a taxi I pondered if I might be able to swipe some painkillers at the hospital before confronting Dr. Livingstone.
After spouting off the directions to the cabbie, I was left to nurse my bottle of wine (it earned me a filthy stare from the driver but this city was small and competition between cabs was fierce enough for him to overlook my open booze bottle). Once again I found myself charging into enemy territory without a plan. Luckily, the bitter wine and my sour attitude combined to make a great suppressant for my cowardice.
I had every reason to be scared of the coming conflict. First of all, I didn’t know what else this Salina Livingstone could do. Was she a witch? Could she make everyone around her levitate and move stuff with their mind? Could she turn me into a newt? After all the other freaky stuff that had happened this week, I wouldn’t put it past her. My second fear and more logical of the two, was the fact that I’d be on the cult’s turf.
Going to the hospital to confront this Dr. Livingstone was much like me going to Zotkin’s base of operations. I would be out of my element, out numbered and out gunned…literally or figuratively I wouldn’t know until it was too late. However, I was heading to a hospital which could work in my favor. It was less likely that someone will try to off me if there were security cameras and civilians around. So if simple murder was out of the question, surely summoning up a walking monster made out of bedpans and ace bandages would be, right?
Right?
After a long draught of wine, I filed the question away for later. The paranoia section of my brain was in danger of going haywire from overuse. In fact the only thing that was keeping my tired brain from breaking down on me was an entire lifetime of shitty situations and the experiences I’d gathered from them.
“That’ll be fifteen bucks.”
The gruff voice accompanied by the smell of sour coffee-breath shook me out of my reverie. I ignored the angry eyes of the cabbie as I fished out a twenty and stared out the window. What I saw made me let out a bitter laugh/sob.
The city where I am currently a resident just so happens to have a very powerful group of people who call themselves the Historical Society. These bookworms go about picketing, protesting and trying to save anything with “historic” value…which boils down to the fact that any contractor, construction foreman or real estate agent must first consult the Historic Society before tearing down, adding on or even cleaning up certain properties. If they refuse to do so they risk a string of lawsuits and protestors waiting for them on bulldozer day.
To appease these bookworms that have somehow gained the ear of the city council, certain properties aren’t torn down. They are just renovated or restocked with whatever the current owner needs. You might find a hundred year old loft with a plasma screen TV in it or a house with a thatched roof surrounded by modern day skyscrapers. Hell, I’m willing to bet that the Historic Society would be the only people with enough sway to make sure a building was not brought up to safety standards but instead left an old, dilapidated rundown for the pure sake of being a stuffy eyesore.
I vowed then and there that if I survived this ordeal I would become a registered voter and raise hell for the Historic Society. Why? Because they were the only reason why the hospital I was about to enter was absolutely terrifying. Yes, the hospital that Dr. Salina Livingstone, possible cultist and dabbler of the black arts, had once been a gothic-style church.
The entire building was made from colossal gray stone slabs and looked like it belonged in a black and white flick where a monster was being stitched together in the basement. The black shingled roof had several steeples complete with spires topping them, casting dark shadows over closed windows. Worst of all, every fifteen feet or so a gargoyle statue hunched over the rain gutter, staring sinisterly at the street below.
How did you make a hospital, the place you are sent while seriously injured or fatally ill, even less appealing? By combining it with a place they’d ship your body after you die. Made perfect sense to someone whose mind was only two misfiring synapses away from being a serial killer.
Reeking of sweat, cherry wine and uncertainty, I stepped out of the cab. Stiffly, I walked up the nicely paved walkway towards the hospital while putting on my game face. At the black barred gates that sealed off the fenced in property, I paused. It took several moments but I somehow managed to locate my manhood just in time to squelch another bout of faint-heartedness before stepping into enemy territory.
Thankfully the hospital doors were not enormous wooden ones that would groan angrily when used. No, this facility had actually built in those automatic doors that slid open as soon as you stepped on the black mat in front of them. The transparent doors revealed a warmly lit hallway with a handful of people in street clothes or scrubs milling about inside.
Upon entering the hospital, the air became heavy with the smell of disinfectant and the chatter of hushed groups strewn about hallways. Beginning to explore, I turned a corner to see one man pacing up and down the hall, glancing at a particular room, with a worried yet excited grin on his lips. Piled on top of a nearby table were tons of cards, small gifts and a big assortment of flowers. Either this guy was waiting on his wife’s new breast implants or there was a baby on the way.
“Congrats!” I called as I approached, throwing my arms out wide.
Normally seeing a half-drunk guy who hadn’t shaved (or even changed clothes lately) limping towards you would be a cause for concern. However, craziness in families begins as soon as the contractions start and this guy was no exception.
“Thanks!” Mr. Smiles bellowed as he gave my hand a rapid series of up and downs that a paint shaker would have been jealous of, “It’s my brother’s first kid. I’m going to be an uncle!”
“That’s just one step removed from being the father, my man!” I declared, managing to pry my hand from his grasp. Suppressing my personal bitterness towards uncles that stemmed from the drunken lout who had raised me, I continued, “You sure as hell treasure the little bundle of joy! In fact that nurse in the red down there just became an aunt!”
“Really?” He asked excitedly, glancing down the hall.
I plucked up a small bundle of flowers and tucked them inside my jacket as Mr. Smiles waved frantically to a nurse in red scrubs who was just confused enough to wave back. I quickly turned the nearest corner with my stolen bouquet and searched for my next target.
It didn’t take me long to find one. A tall orderly was pushing a rolling bed down the hall, whistling to himself despite looking like his sixteen hour shift was not going as he had planned. I got to envy these people who actually…you know, have a job. It seemed like such a hassle! Punching in, having a boss, sexual harassment suits if your coworker is a cutie…
Anyway.
“Excuse me!” I called, stepping in front of the orderly and killing his whistle mid-tune as I presented him with the stolen flowers, “Can you take these to Ellen Cane’s room?”
The orderly was showing classic signs of fatigue. His eyes were red rimmed from lack of sleep and were sunken back in his skull. His poor posture spoke of soreness and stiffness, probably from nights full of restless sleep. His body language and facial expression told me that he was irritated and grumpy and that his aggressiveness needed a target.
I could relate to this guy.
“Talk
to the nurses at the front desk,” He replied just cold enough to make it clear he didn’t want a conversation.
Time to put my great acting talent to work.
“Listen man,” I choked out as I mentally reviewed all the information Buggy had dug up for me on Ellen, “It was my uncle who was behind the wheel during Ellen’s accident! Man… I…I just can’t face a nurse right now! How can I tell her I’m related to the guy who did such a horrible thing to a young woman?!”
After a few minutes of my blubbering, the orderly realized that his best chance of separating himself from me would be getting me the information I needed. With a sigh, he pressed past me and headed towards the nurses’ desk.
I know I could have asked what room Ellen was staying in but my paranoia wouldn’t let me. I could already feel the security cams on my skin which is why I didn’t look directly up for any reason. If I checked with a nurse, I would have to go through some questions and fill out a visitor’s log and all that other bullshit. Sure I could have lied on it but I didn’t want to leave behind any more evidence of my visit than necessary.
A few moments later, the orderly came back. He looked even more tired than when he had left.
“Listen that patient is on the no visitor’s log.” He said, scratching at one of his arms feverishly, “No can do, man. You can leave your gifts at the front.”
“And let some harpy take these flowers?!” I shot back, as if the very idea was an affront to the natural order of things, “No way! Please! Just do me this kindness and take them up?”
I extended the flowers, offering the orderly to take them. He was going from irritated to full-on pissed at a rapid pace, his tired eyes flashing angrily.
“C’mon man, in and out.” I pleaded in my best whine, “She’s just a kid…it’s not much but a little goes a long way, y’know?”
“I got too much to do. I’m not playing delivery boy!” The orderly grunted like a gorilla.
“Come on! It’s for a girl who suffered a horrible accident!” I hissed, adding anger to my faux-desperation, “What kind of fucking person are you not to let a few flowers brighten up her day?!”
The orderly might have been extremely irritated but he was still human. Thank god for that because I know (from spending so much damn time in them) hospitals have a tendency to crush the human spirit and spit out a walking, soulless prescription pad of a person. He finally sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Room 321.” The orderly sighed, “She’s in the long term wing. Follow this hall, take a right and head to the elevator. Take it to the third floor and leave the flowers outside her room. Got it?”
“God bless you!” I cried emotionally, jumping forward and giving him a clap on the shoulder with my free hand.
“Yeah, whatever.” He grunted, “Just be quiet okay? There aren’t many patients up there but those who are practically live there. Most will be trying to sleep.”
“Sure thing!” I agreed excitedly, “God bless you!”
The orderly resumed pushing the rolling bed down the hall as I walked in the opposite direction. I rounded that corner, spotted the elevators at the end and made straight for them. If all went well this was going to be the end of the worst week of my life.
With Ellen’s help I could finally go back to drinking myself to death.
Maybe it was the cherry wine, maybe the desperation, or maybe it was the fact I actually let myself believe the endgame for this nightmarish week was near. Whatever the reason, I ignored that tingling sensation that ran up my spine and made my scalp itch. Stepping inside, I pressed 3 on the elevator panel. I felt rather giddy, as if this encounter was going to guarantee me smooth sailing.
As the elevator started ascending, I decided to make a plan. Any plan is better than no plan. In fact even a bad plan is preferable over no plan because at least with a bad plan you have someone to blame…even if the blaming took place inside of a jail cell after a botched robbery. So my plan was thus; squeeze Ellen for as much information as I could, then confront Dr. Livingstone and hopefully work out a deal…or maybe I’ll just try to find out which car she drives so I could plant a kilo of cocaine in the trunk of her car. That’d be more than enough to get Zotkin’s thugs off their lazy asses and raise hell for the damned cult.
Oh and if the opportunity arose, I’d inquire about my client’s sister. If Faye knew what was good for her presumed-dead ass, she would go back to the grave. It would be best for Fiona if she could just grieve and go back to living a normal life…maybe in time, Fiona will finally begin to doubt that this whole nightmare ever happened and could finally start milking cows or churning butter or doing whatever it was farm girls did.
The elevator dinged and I exited. This floor didn’t reek as strongly of disinfectant as the ones below which was a pleasant change. If this was the long term wing like the orderly had said, I guess that would mean there was less blood and vomit to clean up. This was the wing where elderly patients went to die or chemo therapy patients fought day in and day out or where coma patients were stored.
I was unable to suppress a shiver as my stomach churned. Thinking of coma patients just conjured memories of today’s earlier events, with the cots full of teenaged girls lying around as if waiting to be shipped off somewhere…like a pervert’s wildest fantasy come true.
Casually striding forward, flowers in one hand, I slid the other into my pocket…my index finger ran along the sleek handle of my switchblade. It was my good luck charm and the only real weapon I could rely on if things turned sour. I risked a glance at a reflective half-bowl of tin that was hugging the ceiling. Fifty bucks said there was a camera hidden behind that bowl, which would hopefully work out in my favor.
The risk of murdering me in a place with security cams was too high, right?
With each echo of my footstep down this dreary hall, I lost a little confidence as I drew nearer to my target. With each ounce of confidence lost I realized that I was getting deeper in enemy territory and worse yet, it was an enemy that I didn’t yet understand. With all the weirdness that had happened this week, not understanding my opponent was going to get me killed. And that’s when panic finally hit me and I had to ask myself one question…
What in God’s name was I doing?! This was ridiculous! I had barely survived the last encounter with Dr. Livingstone and her pet flying freak and that was when I had the Twins watching my back! Stopping dead in my tracks, I was just about to turn around and head back to the elevator when it caught my eye. 321. That was the number to the door on my left…Ellen’s room. The only living member of this mysterious cult that I have been able to track down. The only person who could possibly give me some insight about the Daughters of All.
With a sigh, I reached for the door.
Seeing that I was just steps away from getting some answers, a moment of clarity washed over me. These moments were rare thanks to my excessive drinking and hard lifestyle but I can still recall my first crystal clear moment. I was eight years old and my alcoholic uncle (who was several types of “holic” by the way) had thrown me into the deep end of the pool to teach me how to swim. Most kids managed to dog paddle to safety but there are some kids who sink like stones.
I was one of those that sank.
As I realized that I could race any boulder to the bottom of the pool and win, my eight year old brain had a true moment of clarity. First, it became clear to me that I was in trouble and ran along the bottom of the pool to higher ground. Second, it was clear to me that my uncle was a complete asshole and that I would have to replace his toothpaste with a tube of Preparation H to get even.
Since that near-drowning experience, I had paid attention to the rare moments of clarity because they put things in perspective. Such as right now. Yes, I could run and yes I could probably get away... but I’d never have the answers I needed. Never. If someone else cleaned up this mess, I would constantly be plagued by doubt because I would be worried that whoever took care of this cult didn’t do a thorough enoug
h job. It would result in a lifetime of looking over my shoulder, worrying that someone or something might be looking to spill my blood in the name of the Daughters of All.
It was up to me to end this. I needed answers. I needed to know who I was up against and how to stop them. Knowledge is the greatest resource you can have in your arsenal and I was sorely lacking any information concerning the cult. I told myself it was time to get armed, get dangerous and most importantly, get even…
And maybe, just maybe, I also told myself that I owed it to those comatose teens to put an end to whatever sick plans the Daughters of All had.
So just like that, I found myself pushing open the door to room 321 and stepping inside. The room was dark save for a few blinking lights from various machines that also tossed out a beep now and again. Inside smelled of fresh linens and unwashed body. I groped for a light switch, found it and flipped it on.
A young woman lay on the bed in the middle of the room. Her mobility was limited thanks to being hooked to an IV drip and oxygen. Just like her murdered friend Iris, Ellen was definitely apart of the Goth rock scene. Dyed black hair, rail-thin and extremely pale…though you could probably blame her pale complexion on the severity of her injuries. Her face screwed up for a moment as the lights woke her and she squinted, unable to open her sensitive eyes just yet.
“Hello?” She croaked, her breath fogging up the oxygen mask.
After shutting the door behind me, I stepped forward and picked up her medical chart. Having spent many hours in many hospitals all over the world thanks to loan sharks or overzealous thugs, I was able to decipher medical jargon and even the short hand scrawl that doctors favored. Ellen had several broken bones, mild swelling of the brain and one collapsed lung. She probably had enough surgeries scheduled to make her parent’s insurance company shit a brick.
“Looks like you’ve had it rough kid.” I commented, setting the chart back on the bed, “One hell of a car wreck, huh?”
Upon hearing an unfamiliar male voice in her room, Ellen’s eyes shot open and began tearing up immediately thanks to the bright lights. I stood as confidently and heroically as I could despite my disheveled appearance and aching body.
“Who are you?” Ellen asked suspiciously, though she didn’t seem overly worried, probably thanks to all the painkillers coursing through her veins.
“My name isn’t important,” I parried with a charming smile, “My profession is, however. I am a Private Investigator.”
Amusement and excitement flashed across Ellen’s ragged features. If I knew my teenaged girls (which I did) she was probably suffering more from boredom than any of her injuries. Needless to say, I was offering a fun switch in her daily hospital routine which she pounced on eagerly.
“Private Investigator?” She repeated over the pumping and beeping of the machines hooked into her, “What are you investigating?”
“I am looking into what happened to your friend Iris.” I stated in my best cop voice, which was really easy because all you had to do is sound like a total prick.
A few ragged breaths from Ellen as she sat up on the bed.
“What about Iris?” The hospitalized young lady asked, suddenly not liking where this was going.
It didn’t take all my years of reading poker faces to realize that this wasn’t any act. Ellen was genuinely concerned about Iris which meant she hadn’t heard her good friend had been savagely murdered. Well I wasn’t about to tell her about the murder, especially considering it had been a horrific ploy to frame me. Besides I was under a time frame and I couldn’t risk Ellen bursting into tears or going into shock over the news of her friend’s death.
So what did I do? I lied of course.
“We have reason to believe that your friend Iris and several other local girls are sneaking into a club known as Hell Scratch.” I responded, my voice heavy with false authority, “A few concerned citizens have hired me to investigate the club’s owner, who is a registered sex offender.”
I didn’t even know who the club’s current owner was, nor did I care. All I knew is that Ellen had been cut off from the rest of the world since her hospitalization. That meant I held the upper hand and all I had to do is bullshit her a bit. If I recalled correctly, teenaged girls devoured gossip and BS like sharks devoured chum.
“I…er…don’t know anything about that.” Ellen stated, her voice only breaking once under my scrutinizing gaze.
I sighed, completely falling into my fake persona.
“Listen, I understand it’s no big deal slipping in and having a few drinks. But this guy is dangerous and I wouldn’t want anything to happen to your friends, ok? I don’t even need their names.” I coaxed soothingly, “In fact, I won’t even mention I spoke with you. All I need to know is if you kids were being allowed to enter the club or sneaking in?”
She didn’t meet my gaze and started fumbling with the end of the thin hospital blanket that lay across her lap. Here she was, hooked into several machines that were keeping her alive and she still looked like she was some sort of kid scared of becoming a tattletale. If being drugged in the hospital didn’t put your life in perspective for you, I don’t know what would.
“Ellen,” I said more firmly, her eyes meeting mine, “I need to know. Why are you going to that club? I won’t say a thing and it might save some of your friend’s some real heartache.”
“It’s nothing really,” Ellen mumbled, looking away from me once more, pausing to take a few deep breaths from the mask, “We are let in…but not by the owner or anything.”
I waited for her to continue. Sometimes silence can be more effective than pleading or even threatening. Have you ever been driving in the car with someone and find the silence unbearable? Something about it makes you force conversation, no matter how idiotic or boring the topic? That’s what I was using to my advantage right now.
Keeping my lips shut and my eyes locked on the bedridden girl, I let the weight of silence fall on her. The only sound was of her ragged breathing and the machines she was hooked to. She was young, just like departed Iris and didn’t seem the type to disregard all authority. She was just some girl who got mixed up in something, most likely by accident, and was in way over her head.
It took only a solid minute of silence to crack her.
“Don’t tell anyone please? I’m begging you!” Ellen finally sputtered, her eyes pleading with me, “A few girls from school, they…they invited a few of us to join this club. We get to go to cool parties and see some freaky things and laugh about it later. The club leader knows the doorman and he lets us in…”
“I figured the Daughters of All were more of a religious organization than an after school social.” I commented nonchalantly.
The look on poor Ellen’s face was priceless. Her features when from shock, to suspicion, to guilt. Not so different from a kid who shared a secret with a best friend only to find it the most popular gossip the next day at school.
“You…know about the Daughters?” She asked in a wheezing whisper.
“I didn’t until earlier this week,” I admitted, knowing that a lie flavored with truth was the sweetest deception, “But a few girls had something to say about it, especially Iris.”
Now guilt really did seem to settle on Ellen’s face. She swallowed nervously before meeting my eyes again.
“Iris…well, I invited her to the meetings we held.” Ellen confessed nervously, “I was supposed to be there, but…well, I ended up here instead.”
Another lapse into silence. With her resolve weakening thanks to the guilt welling up inside her, I decided it was time to string Ellen along for some real information.
“You do realize I’m going to have to ask a few questions about the Daughters of All, don’t you?” I changed my tone from soothing to gruff, “It’s illegal to have underage teens inside a venue like that.”
Ellen looked up at me worried, “But we didn’t do anything wrong! We just meet there! That’s all!”
“Just hung out? At
a bar?”
“W-we didn’t drink! Honest! W-we just talked.”
Bingo. Time to do some fishing.
Letting out a sigh that sounded like defeat, I rubbed the back of my neck, a cliché` move that you see in nearly every cop drama. It was displayed by the rookie cop to show how green he truly was. To sum it up, it was a perfectly human gesture which would put a girl like Ellen at ease.
“Okay, I believe ya. After all, I’m not investigating the Daughters of All.” I replied with a wink, “My main target is the club’s owner. But hey, just out of curiosity…what do a bunch of young girls talk about at a club? I mean, if you wanted to talk about who was the cutest kid in class couldn’t you hit the park or something?”
Ellen snorted a laugh that forced her to readjust her oxygen mask.
“No it’s nothing like that. We…I dunno…we just talk about different things. Sometimes it’s just about life and the group leader will talk about how precious youth is, and how we don’t really appreciate it until it’s gone.” Ellen explained, “But sometimes we talk about other things…kinda weird to be honest. About magic and stuff or about tattoos and their symbolism.”
My heart began to quicken. Magic? Tattoos? How about discussing how to give a fucking junkie magical properties or create a monster from the trash lying around your office?
“They give you tattoo ideas?” I laughed, grinning to put her off guard, “I mean tattoos are more of my generation. When I grew up, every kid wanted to get a tattoo.”
Laughing, Ellen shrugged and laid back down in bed.
“Well some of us get tattoos. It has to be specific, too. The older members actually give out the designs and tell us where the best tattoo artists are. Sometimes the senior members will even pay for our ink.” Ellen said in a hush, as if this was the most scandalous piece of information to pass along, “But they have to be in certain places like on the shoulder or chest.”
I thought of the Hell Scratch addict and the strange markings appearing on his chest like scar tissue. Then another thought struck me like a brick…young women getting tattoos on their shoulders? A mental image flashed before my eyes as I remembered those coma-induced girls falling into West’s lap. Their shoulders had those tribal-like tattoos on them. Did that mean those girls in the club’s basement were the senior members of the cult? What could those tattoos possibly represent?
“Interesting…now, these older members…are they like your pastors or something?” I asked, “Or more like youth leaders?”
Ellen shrugged.
“Neither. I mean, a few of them say that we can become priestesses if we truly accept the teachings of the Daughters,” Ellen replied with a sheepish grin, “But that’s not why most of us go to their meetings. We…we were just looking for something different. Something fun to do.”
Yeah, that’s exactly what Iris was looking for too and her thrill seeking had gotten her killed…or had it been my nosey attitude that had indirectly killed her? My smile tightened as I forced it to stay in place instead of becoming a scowl of disgust.
“I understand. Could I get some names of the older members? I just want to ask them if the club owner has made any unwelcomed advances.” I concluded, figuring Ellen trusted me enough to give me what I really wanted, “Don’t worry. Our talk here will be strictly confidential. As far as I’m concerned, the Daughters can keep doing whatever it is you girls do.”
Like I dunno…resurrect someone’s dead sister to put her out on the dance floor?!
The bedridden young lady thought she had won me over. For her, I had began as the gruff cop-talk type until layer after layer peeled away to reveal a friendly face. In her mind, she had bested me and no longer saw me as an authority figure but just someone who had taken the time to talk with her. After all, isn’t that what all women want?
“Well, it’s kinda hard to find out who the senior members are. Like, most of the girls who stick around long enough to get their Daughters of All tats usually end up leaving after that.” Ellen began, pausing as she tried to recall names, “Called away to other sects in other cities.”
Bullshit. I knew exactly where these girls who got their tats had ended up. With a shiver, I thought of the lounge in Hell Scratch.
“But there are two senior members that have been at every meeting since I started going. Even though they deny it, everyone says they run the Daughters of All. Some girls say one is the founder!” Ellen continued excitedly, “The other one actually works here! She is a doctor and is a bit older than the rest of us who hang out-”
“Age before beauty, Ellen.” Came a sharp voice from behind us.
To be honest, I would have jumped at the sound of the voice if I hadn’t been so sore. Instead I gave a start and turned to the doorway and wasn’t that all surprised to find Dr. Livingstone standing in there. Beautiful as always and dressed in designer attire save for the lab coat she wore, Dr. Salina Livingstone was staring at me with what seemed to be amusement. She had her arms folded just below her generous bust and turned her eyes to Ellen.
“I thought we Daughters kept all of our secrets safe.” The doctor scolded Ellen, who seemed to immediately freeze up under such an accusation.
“I-I just wanted to talk to someone,” Ellen replied mournfully, pulling the covers up against her as if Livingstone was some sort of boogeyman that couldn’t penetrate bed linen.
“She didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know,” I replied, putting on my best scowl and giving each syllable extra aggressiveness, “But you can still enlighten me.”
I took a step towards the seductive doctor but she just laughed bitterly and took a few steps back. In her placed stepped a very tall orderly, who looked more than a little angry. I was surprised to find that, in fact, it was the same orderly who had given me directions to Ellen’s room.
The signs of fatigue I had seen in this orderly might have been misread. The red rimmed eyes, the pale skin and poor hygiene weren’t signs of horrible hours suffered by an overworked employee. Instead they probably the result of injecting any drugs he could scrounge up into his veins.
Honestly did the cult recruit every fucking strung-out loser in the city?!
“I don’t know how you managed to get out of Hell Scratch alive,” Dr. Livingstone hissed, “But I think those two roughnecks you were with might have something to do with it. But since you’re alone…Mike, be a lamb and take care of this filth.”
The orderly, Mike apparently, took a menacing step towards me. He was taller, younger and probably outweighed me by several pounds. That already gave him several advantages and that wasn’t even taking my bashed up body into account! In a fair fight, I wouldn’t stand a chance.
Too bad for this guy I wasn’t planning on playing fair.
“I’m in no mood, Mike.” I warned him.
He didn’t listen. Instead he reached out, going to grab the front of my shirt. I’m sure when you’re bigger than your opponent, grappling makes sense in a fight. To me, this maneuver was completely idiotic. Before he even had time to take hold of me, I drew my trusty switchblade and struck.
I drove half of the blade through his palm.
“GAAA! FUCK!” The orderly screamed as I ripped the blade from his hand, causing and arc of blood to decorate the white tiles of the floor.
As he cradled his injured hand to his chest, I used that time to press my advantage. With a flick of my wrist I not only flung all of the blood from my weapon but also retracted the blade back into the handle. Here’s another reason I loved switchblades so much: they were heavy. Once the blade was locked inside the handle it turned the weapon into a makeshift blackjack.
Stepping forward I swung my arm like a horizontal pendulum, all the while keeping the handle gripped tightly in my fist. The wooden and brass butt of the handle crashed into the orderly’s temple with as much force as my arm could provide.
The attack was adequate.
Mike crumpled to the floor, thrown into unconsciousness so quickly he didn�
��t even have time to let out another cry of pain.
As the orderly hit the floor, Ellen gave a small cry of alarm. I ignored her, stepping over the man I had knocked out cold and into the hallway. Dr. Livingstone was waiting for me, the damn bitch didn’t look the least bit alarmed at my ruthless disposal of her flunky. From what I could read in her eyes and lips, the deranged doctor thought her lackey being dispatched was quite amusing.
“Now,” I growled, trying to ignore my itching scalp or the cold feeling of fear twisting in my gut, “You owe me some answers.”
It was too late to weasel out now. There were two eye witnesses of me assaulting that orderly and probably some video evidence as well. It was all or nothing. I had to get what I came here for or else all these risks would have been a giant waste of time and effort.
“Mmm, I would precious, I really would.” Dr. Livingstone answered, totally at ease, “But loose lips sink ships. I won’t want to ruin my cozy little setup over some idle chitchat now would I?”
“Why the hell would you work for the Daughters of All?” I demanded, anger giving me more backbone than usual, “You’re on Big Pharma’s payroll! You got it made, you crazy bitch! Why bother screwing around with adolescent jailbait and this cult?! You’re risking life in prison!”
Seeing that smirk fall from her face was almost as satisfying as slapping Dr. Livingstone. Now I have never struck a woman but if there was ever going to be an exception to the rule, it was this deranged doctor. I had met her type frequently over the years. They created their own air of superiority, looking down on everyone around them as if they were just ants waiting to be fried under their withering gazes of delusional supremacy.
You could find people like Livingstone in mafia circles, slum lords gatherings, or yacht clubs.
Right now Dr. Livingstone was putting on her poker face. Her lips still held a smile but it was a forced one, the corners of her mouth were drawn too tight for it to be genuine. Her eyes flashed dangerously, first with uncertainty, then anger and finally contempt. Apparently she didn’t like the fact that Buggy had filled me in on her most recent activities.
“Fine.” She said after a lengthy pause, “I’ll play a game. Since you obviously have me at a disadvantage, you tell me who you are and I will answer one question of yours. Deal?”
I glanced down the hallway at the elevators. If the hall cameras were a live feed to a security station, the elevator could open up at anytime with rent-a-cops or true blue police officers storming in. Still, I had to get through to this wench and fast and if playing her little game would speed things along, so be it.
“The name is Broker,” I answered with a cocky smile that only one of my dubious nature could conjure up, “Paranormal Investigator.”
“Paranormal Investigator?” Dr. Livingstone repeated slowly, working the words out like she had to chew them up first. Her smile became genuine as she threw back her head and began a bizarre laughing fit.
“Are you serious?! You’re not even apart of the S-3 Program? That’s just delightful!” She spouted while giving a shrill laugh, “To think I was beginning to worry over some…some fluke like you!”
Despite how amusing Dr. Livingstone found this, I wasn’t even going to bother to ask what the S-3 Program was. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t give a flying blue fuck about anything this nutcase might find amusing. All I wanted to do was get the name of the leader of the Daughters of All.
“Okay, now let’s finish our little game.” I prompted.
There were a hundred questions I could have asked. What the hell was that trash-thing that had attacked me? Who killed Iris? Who was that junkie who jumped me outside of Hell Scratch? What was with those comatose teens? How had that addict gained his paranormal powers? But no, I just needed one little gem of information. Just a single name…
“Mmm,” Purred the seductive doctor, “Fine. Fair is fair. What do you want to know?”
“Who’s your boss?” I asked without hesitation, “Who is in charge of the Daughters of All?!”
Those crimson lips of hers gave me a predatory smile and she clasped her hands together, as if the information she was about to part with was a delight within itself.
“I guess there is no harm in telling you.” Dr. Livingstone grinned, “The head priestess of the Daughters of All goes by the name of Faye Ambrose.”
* * * * *
