Sons of a Brutality

by Daniel Jeudy

  Meagan had partaken in countless death offerings over the years, slaughtering a range of citizens from across the country. When she considered the multitude of victims who could be attributed to Filii Reprobi, it provided her with a sense of invulnerability. Despite the sheer volume of killing, not one of them had ever been apprehended. The Old Man’s sphere of influence extended to Capitol Hill, and his associations enabled them to remain hidden in plain sight. Every Filii Reprobi was instructed on the significance of regulating their passion to ensure they never attracted outside interest.

  An associate must bring something exceptional to their society and have the means to present a sophisticated front. They never dressed in ridiculous costumes to rip a cutting edge across someone’s throat, enjoyed the finest exotic drugs, and regularly fucked one another’s brains out. Still, human butchery was what truly connected them. Murder was their art form.

  Meagan felt a fresh wave of apprehension as she approached the church’s doors before gliding inside on light feet. She caught sight of the Old Man lighting candles at precise intervals on the other side of the hall; it generated an outbreak of fluttering wings at the base of her belly. Meagan considered stepping back outside to recompose herself but presumed a withdrawal might be interpreted as a symptom of guilt. She’d become a participant with Edward from the moment she provided him the drugs, and her impetuosity had the potential to bite her on the ass.

  The Old Man would be expecting to receive a truthful account of the facts, and she couldn’t risk responding to his questions in an impromptu manner. Whatever misgivings he had wouldn’t be because young women were getting abducted and killed. It was only due to the corpses being left on display that there was a need for this discussion at all.

  It had been several years since Meagan felt jittery about meeting a man. She extinguished her anxiety after tracking down the two assholes who’d raped her at college. They were delivered to a Filii Reprobi property situated in the Los Padres National Forest, where she spent a couple of days rejoicing with a few close friends. They’d taken their time on the fucking creeps, pulling hot entrails through the small incisions she crafted into their abdomens. Her surgical skills came in handy whenever anyone set their sights on maintaining a pulse.

  Meagan never allowed herself to be cowed by much nowadays; however, the Old Man could somehow breach her defenses without even trying. She tugged nervously at her peach-colored skirt while she gazed around the exquisite hall. Everything within contravened the simple presentation on the outside. The gallery was a triumph to Victorian ascendancy, combining the charm of nineteenth-century pomp with Southern flair. Traditional chaise couches provided comfort throughout, and a collection of Marcel Duchamp sculptures rested in the corner. Yet, it was Robert Campin’s Netherlandish masterpieces that Meagan appreciated most of all.

  Italian river stones were fitted into esoteric designs on the ceiling, while the floors displayed a black and white Masonic checkered pattern. A giant goat’s-head pentagram hewn from the highest quality Mesoamerican jade was peerless as the centerpiece inside the room.

  The Old Man didn’t give any indication he’d noticed Meagan’s presence as the candlelight created flickering shadows that danced along the wall. He appeared captivating in a blue cotton suit, a white V-neck shirt, and alligator-skin boots. His shock of thick gray hair was combed back carelessly, and his chiseled features were apparent in the sparkling light.

  Most men presented fragile by the time they hit seventy-two, but the Old Man didn’t exhibit frailty in his movement. He was of a moderate height with broad shoulders and strong hands, the flesh on his body remained firm to touch. His greenish eyes blazed experience, and there was something about his stare that made Meagan want to stay and flee at the same time.

  “Are you going to come inside or just continue standing there like a mute?” he asked with his back turned, proving how he didn’t need his vision to recognize an approach.

  Meagan slinked her way across the room and released a faint breath of reprieve when he extended a hand, accepting his palm into her own, brushing over his skin with a stroke of her slender fingers. She couldn’t resist running her tongue along her upper lip; there had always been a sizeable part of her that craved his touch.

  “You must know why I’ve asked you to come.”

  “Yes, I believe I do,” Meagan confirmed, watching while he clapped his hands in a deliberate move to return any dust particles to the floor.

  “And?”

  “There is absolutely no reason for you to be concerned about the ketamine or the chloroform. Supposing that is what’s troubling you. No one can trace them to me.”

  The Old Man appeared rigid while he considered her response; the candles’ reflection made his eyes smolder like two living caverns of eternal flame.

  “We operate in perilous times,” he declared dispassionately. “Edward’s actions have generated far too much excitement among the public. I know that a couple of extremely hardy detectives are now leading the investigation into the bodies he’s dumping in those hills. This pair of nosy bloodhounds have earned a reputation for being men who won’t go away easily. I can’t get my head around what it is he’s trying to achieve. The manner he’s going about his business is not how I expect my people to operate. So, will you please fucking enlighten me as to why he is behaving in such a way?”

  The question caught Meagan off guard, and her doubts quickly returned, as if formulating a satisfactory reply was an act of folly. All the planning she’d done on the drive over seemed inadequate. She felt a flash of relief when the Old Man continued.

  “There are so many other locations he could have used to dispose of those bodies: places in the desert where they would never have seen the light of day.”

  Meagan locked onto his gaze as he took her in, contemplating whether she should apologize for her part in supplying the chemicals and be done with it. Instead, she decided to be clear in the hope of appealing to his unbridled spirituality.

  “He’s attempting to resurrect a ghost from seasons past and believes he will achieve a more favorable result by creating a brief period of publicized chaos.” She wiped away the dampness from her palms on the back of her skirt. The Old Man understood the science involved with building sacrificial energy, and even though he remained silent, she could tell her words had found their mark.

  “He’s just trying to increase the vitality within each offering,” she continued.

  The Old Man closed his eyes to reflect over the fundamentals of what she’d said as Meagan felt the edginess return to her belly. “How many?” he asked coolly.

  “What?”

  “The women, how many more are there going to be?”

  “He intends to kill another four.”

  “Are you aware of what the penalty will be if this thing runs askew?”

  “Yes, I am,” she said, doing her utmost not to shuffle her feet.

  “All right, then, so be it. Who is she?”

  “Sorry?”

  “The woman whose spirit he’s attempting to bring back. That’s the very reason you said he’s bleeding out young blondes and exposing them in the hills, is it not?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Who is she?”

  The urge to lie became irresistible.

  “Linda. H-He’s hoping to bring back Linda Jones,” she said with a stutter.

  The Old Man didn’t register a reaction as his eyes turned into cold fire lights. For a while, it seemed as if he was going to keep on staring right through her.

  “Now I see,” he replied finally, turning around to leave her standing in the middle of the room while he continued with the task of placing candles.

  Nineteen

  Addison kept a lazy eye on his bacon while he placed his Samsung down onto the kitchen benchtop. He’d awoken an hour earlier in a bad headspace and decided to fix something for breakfast in the hope it might improve his disposition. His dreams had been a flickering reel of swoll
en faces, red lights, and spectral images of dead kids with clouded eyes who accused him through wintry lips. Then, when he’d awoken, his hair was soaking, and his brain felt like Jell-O, as if he’d been rugged up sleeping inside a steam room.

  He’d spent ten minutes deciding whether he should be making more effort to reach his ex-wife before concluding it might be wise to hold off until he felt less irritable. He needed answers to why Nate wasn’t returning any of his messages but didn’t see much point in quarreling with the woman unless it was necessary.

  Michelle was not a vindictive person, which raised the possibility she might be involved in a new relationship. It wasn’t as if he’d have an issue with her moving on; however, he did want to know if a stranger was hanging out with his kid.

  When he arrived home from work the night before, his mind had been full of static, and the muscles in his neck were compressed so tightly it made turning his head feel like a form of self-flagellation. He ended up taking three Valiums with a glass of whiskey after dinner and drifted off to sleep watching TV on the couch. It was the most extended rest he’d had in days, and despite the night terrors, his brain felt much more cohesive for the experience.

  Addison released a yawn as he cracked a couple of eggs into the center of the frypan before casting his eye around the banged-up kitchen. It was a small space, even for just one person who didn’t care much for food. The faux marble countertops were all faded down the center, and most of the flimsy cupboard doors needed replacement. Michelle would have been in his ear if they were still together, chattering on about impracticality as a means of pestering him for an upgrade. Addison’s requirements were less complicated than his ex-wife’s because his appetite had charted a downward trajectory these last few years. There were still occasions when he would climb out of bed craving something, but those days came around infrequently.

  Whenever he wanted a dependable lunch, he’d get into his truck and take a drive to Bill’s Cafe on Spring Street. The small, no-frills diner was popular with many detectives in homicide, and their omelets were something else. He used to take Nate to Bill’s on a Saturday afternoon when they were living at Eagle Rock. Afterward, the two of them would stroll down to Chinatown while discussing basketball, the Dallas Cowboys, and what it meant to be a cop in LA.

  The memory of those past weekends burned like hot embers within Addison’s heart, so he redirected his thoughts to avoid any underlying bitterness from taking root. He’d come to appreciate how nothing good resulted from holding on to his anger during the fifteen years he’d waited for his father’s murderer to face execution. The hatred he dragged around impaired his ability to be present in most relationships, while his mom preached forgiveness in a vain attempt to help him move forward with his life.

  She’d been mindful of communicating her message in gentle terms without minimizing his grief. Perhaps if he’d taken some of her advice, his affairs wouldn’t be in the mess they were today. His resentment tainted whatever he set his sights on, and it was only after witnessing the lethal injection doing its thing that he was able to release a portion of his anger. Nevertheless, he still needed to contact Michelle to determine what was going on and stipulate how the current setup wasn’t working.

  Jed was supposed to be arriving in an hour, and Addison was hoping his partner’s presence of mind might be in a much better place. They would be taking another drive up into the Hollywood Hills to meet with a woman who moved within occult circles.

  Elizabeth Plume had phoned through to HQ the previous day as Addison was heading for the door. He recalled speaking to her at the Parker Center in 2009 about a case he’d been working on. The detective who delivered the woman’s message explained how she asked for Addison by name. He didn’t hesitate to return the call after remembering her background before arranging to meet at her home the following morning.

  Plume would probably describe herself as a spiritual consultant who specialized in connecting people with esoteric material and New Age mysticism. When she initially approached Addison eight years earlier, he was embroiled in a nationwide search for an outcast associate of an Alabama religious cult. The scumbag was wanted on two counts of first-degree murder, but his profile exploded when the body of a teenage girl was discovered in the Los Angeles River Basin with his DNA inside her. Plume’s assistance didn’t result in his apprehension; nevertheless, her info helped them secure a verdict.

  Conferring with Plume might be considered as something of a long shot. They were becoming increasingly desperate, and Addison’s core sense about the perpetrator being active in occult circles wasn’t shifting. There’d been nothing to indicate the killer planned these crimes on impulse, and he suspected the inverted cross was more than just a calling card.

  He’d worked several cases where the offender left an autograph and couldn’t shake the feeling the symbol signified a more precise connotation. Regardless, the time had come for them to get inventive and broaden their search to ensure they knocked upon every door. For even if the offender’s motives weren’t as complex as Addison believed them to be, he wasn’t coming across as a degenerate who would come unstuck because of an inability to control the perversion.

  Addison chewed his overcooked bacon with disinterest before swallowing a mouthful of juice to help get the meat down his throat. He still needed to jump under the shower and wanted to be sure he finished his morning whiskey by the time Jed arrived. Addison had managed to stay astride of the drinking to this point, but going cold turkey was never a bright idea. Complete abstinence would cause several other problems to arise, and he intended on consuming just enough liquor to keep his hands from trembling during work hours, and not a drop more.

  The breakfast was abysmal, even by his standards, so he scraped the leftovers into the trash as a wave of vertigo came over him. Addison steadied himself by reaching out for the counter as he waited for the kitchen to stop spinning, thinking about the bottle of whiskey he’d opened during the night. When the dizziness subsided, he dropped his plate into the sink, stretched out a crick in his neck, and started toward the bedroom on rickety legs.

  Part two

  “Air grows cold, I won’t despair, I set my face like stone.

  For the glory and the end of fear.”

  From the song Stay Awake

  —written by Leigh Marks.

  Twenty

  The aroma of frankincense permeated throughout Elizabeth Plume’s fancy living room as the two detectives waited for her to finish speaking on the phone. Addison had contemplated asking her if he could open a window, but he didn’t want to offend and was already picking up on a feeling that she may have been having second thoughts about contacting him in the first place.

  Plume was a striking woman in her fifties who wasn’t afraid of expressing her opinions on life, politics, and everything in between. She was pretentious with an edge of entitlement attached to every gesture. Her finely arched eyebrows contrasted the straight-line symmetry of her nose, while her cheekbones balanced the surgically enhanced features on her face. Plume’s lips were softly inviting, which complemented her sharply etched jawline and long raven hair. She didn’t appear to be a day over forty, and her luminous aqua-colored eyes had a feline quality to them. An erotic ambiance seemed to fill the atmosphere around her, and Addison took another long glimpse at the curvaceous legs projecting from beneath her red summer dress.

  The spacious room displayed contemporary artworks and expensive ornamentation, and hard-bound leather tomes filled the bookshelf behind the detectives. A ceiling to floor window provided an expansive view past the city to frame the rambling metropolis of Los Angeles into a moving picture. The sleek modular couch where Addison was seated could have easily accommodated another twenty people, while the sandstone walls and rustic timber flooring were crafted from the highest-quality materials.

  When Addison spoke with Plume in 2009, their meeting occurred within a smoke-stained interview room at the LAPD’s previous headquarters downtown. The
Glass House was considered an architectural masterpiece in 1955, though most of its mystique had faded by the eighties.

  That outdated office complex was like a cesspit compared with these luxurious surroundings. Addison had been taken aback by the extent of the woman’s fortune when they pulled into her gated drive that morning. He understood how real estate in this part of town never came cheap but had still been expecting her home to feel less upmarket.

  Plume farewelled whoever she was speaking to and placed the phone onto the armrest beside her. She released a groan while maintaining a rigid back as she eyed the detectives suspiciously from across the room. Plume’s legs were crossed as she tapped a foot in the air like she was searching for an opportunity to send them on their way.

  “Sorry for the disruption, but I did need to take the call,” Plume said through the thinnest veneer of restraint. “Now, where were we? Oh yes, that’s right. Now I’m not sure if I’ve understood your previous question. Although, if I’m correct in presuming you’re asking me whether I associate with people who approve of homicide, then my response would be an emphatic no, absolutely not. I’d consider that to be a very ignorant inquiry and more than a little offensive. There is far too much prejudice directed toward people who choose to go against the tide of general acceptance. I’m sure we can all agree nothing prodigious is ever accomplished by holding onto a partisan mindset.”