Crucible of Fear

by D. W. Whitlock

  The hand closed around his chest and tightened.

  Dante jerked awake, heart hammering. Gulping air, he shuddered as cold sweat dripped down his ribs under the hospital gown. Grimacing, he shut his eyes as his right hand began to throb. He could feel the weight of it, the presence—even though he knew it was gone. He resisted the urge to wiggle his fingers, some gesture to convince himself otherwise. Squeezing his eyes tighter, he watched as faint gold and green patterns appeared, swaying like beaded curtains.

  You’re going to have to look sometime.

  A dull ache settled into his chest as he thought of all the things he’d done with his hand, mind drifting from one memory to the next.

  Silly faces on a fogged-up bus window on the way to kindergarten. That rare occasion when he raised his hand in Ms. Gordon’s second grade math class. Pictures in crayon and watercolor and, then later in colored pencil. Games of catch and jump shots. Punching Geoff Melnor in the nose, that little prick. The time he slammed his hand in a car door and it swelled up with painful throbs, like a heart had leapt up his arm to live there.

  High fives with friends and Colin, even though he hated them.

  The simple pleasure of itching his scrotum. Well not itching really, everybody said that. It was more of a pinch and roll.

  Touching a breast in seventh grade on a dare while Anne-Marie Traynor slid a hand up his shorts. They’d both squealed as the other kids counted down from five, Dante’s voice higher than hers until she pulled her hand away like she’d touched hot coals.

  “His thingy jumped!”

  He smiled at the memory.

  All the countless handshakes, deals made, pats on the back during hugs. The rhythmic thuds of his taped hand in a tight fist, striking a speed bag in concert with the other.

  Michelle’s engagement ring had been put on with that hand. Her wedding ring as well, one dovetailing neatly with the other. Surprised himself when he’d eagerly cut Abigail’s umbilical cord when she was born, even though he swore he never would. That hand held the phone when a faceless doctor called about Michelle. “Better that you come to the hospital, Mr. Ellis.”

  Better for whom?

  Balled that same hand up and punched a hole in the wall when they’d told him she’d just slipped away. Enlarged heart. It was a cruel joke, that someone like Michelle would die from having too big a heart.

  Rose petals.

  Opening his fingers and letting them drift down on a perfect spring morning through the fragrant odor of fresh tilled earth, the sun on his face. On any other day, he might have felt blessed.

  Bitter tears slid down his face but he made no move to wipe them away. He hated those tears and swore he’d never cry again—show his daughter what it meant to be strong, fearless, no matter what life threw at you. A cold fire burned out the ache inside and he shook as heat flushed his face, mouth twisted up in a scowl, the faint gold and green behind his eyes becoming a deep red.

  Strange. It was like his brain needed to say goodbye to his hand so his body could accept it. That it was gone, but it was going to be okay. It was just a hand.

  But it wasn’t just a hand, he raged back.

  It was his contact with the world. And he didn’t lose it in an accident, some unforeseeable occurrence. It had been taken from him.

  Stolen.

  It was time.

  Dante gritted his teeth, trying to maintain the swell of emotions as his right hand closed into a fist, squared off and powerful. Maybe he hadn’t lost it after all.

  Dante opened his eyes.

  A groan escaped his lips as he saw the plastic sleeve cinched tight around his wrist. Blue light emanated from slits along the sleeve. Hoses snaked out and curved down under the bed, one draining fluid the color of liver pâté.

  The phantom hand erupted with agony as it locked into a useless, gnarled claw. The heart monitor was blipping fast, but Dante barely heard it as something hissed and the pain bled away. The hand turned to warm jelly as the drugs went to work.

  Footsteps echoed down the hall and Dante prepared tell the nurse that everything was fine and to kindly leave him the fuck alone. This particular misery did not love company, but thanks just the same.

  The door opened and an older woman came in, dark curly hair clipped close to her skull. She wore a charcoal suit over her stocky frame with a powder blue blouse underneath. The expression on her puggish face was flat but her eyes burned with a fierce light.

  “Special Agent Boucher,” Dante slurred, raising the stump of his right arm. “Think I got a case now?”

  CHAPTER 57

  BOLO

  Boucher listened as Dante recounted the chain of events leading up to now. From the first text in front of Abigail’s school, up to the words scrawled in soap at Shadow Trace, to the man gaining access to his office and the amputation. The dragonfly drones. She made notes with a small pencil nub in a memo pad cupped in one hand.

  Gazing around, Boucher saw the wheeled table at the end of the bed. “Do you mind?” she said as she moved the table into place. Putting the pad down, she began to write again, the letters small and blocky.

  Dante liked that. No way to hack a pencil and paper.

  Boucher read through her notes, made a scribble or two before fixing him with her gaze.

  “The quotes are chosen for the message, not the source,” Boucher said.

  “Seems so. They’re just using whatever serves their purpose.” Dante cleared his throat. “Whatever that is.”

  “Terrorism,” Boucher said. “They want to make your life hell, put your head on a swivel at all times. Create a cloud of fear that follows you everywhere you go. I use the word terrorism, Mr. Ellis, because that specific classification unlocks a lot more resources at the bureau. The question is,” Boucher said. “Why you?”

  “Your boy Dmitry was supposed to help with that, but he’s flown the coop.”

  “We’ll find him. He’s gone to ground, but he’s still local. No record of him leaving the country yet. Got a nationwide BOLO out for him.”

  “BOLO?”

  “Be on the lookout. He pokes his head out, we’ll get him.”

  “He’s part of this then?”

  “Not likely.”

  “What does that mean exactly?”

  “It means he’s a CI, so we give him the benefit of the doubt until we find out otherwise.”

  “CI?” Dante said with a sigh. “Sorry, I’m not up on all my feebee lingo.”

  “Feebee. God, I hate that one. Confidential informant. He works with us, but not for us. That’s all I can really say at this time.”

  “Female Body Inspector,” Dante said. “Always liked that one too.”

  “Yeah, it’s a classic.”

  “There’s this kid, too…”

  “Skylar Westfall. There’s a very strong possibility he’s involved.”

  “Dark Messiah.”

  Boucher held his gaze. “Yes.”

  “Ever heard of them?”

  “No, but that’s not uncommon. New groups pop up all the time, usually formed with black hats from other orgs as ideals and alliances change.”

  “I know that one. Hackers. Black hats and White hats, bad guys and good guys.”

  “Right. Speaking of good guys, you got a protection detail now. Two officers are with your daughter as we speak and I got one standing right outside this door. You don’t go anywhere without them, understood?”

  “Yes,” Dante said. “Thanks, Agent Boucher. Really. I can’t keep Abigail safe anymore like this…” Dante said motioning down at himself.

  “Sorry it had to get to this point,” Boucher said. “I have a daughter too.”

  “I remember. Patricia. Pre-med. Pepperdine.”

  Boucher’s eyes lit up. “It ain’t cheap. Especially on my salary. But it’s worth it.” She smiled wistfully. “She’s my baby.”

  Dante grinned back and they sat for a moment, thinking of their girls.

  “What’s next?” Dante said.
>
  Boucher’s face hardened again. “Forensic examination of all your devices, security systems, professional and personal. We monitor your phone as well, so the next time they get in touch we can trace it. I assume that’s okay with you?”

  “At this point, yes.”

  “Good, because I have a court order that says I can do whatever I want anyway. I apologize now for this invasion of privacy but it must be done. We’re way past deep fake donkey shows. This is an act of terrorism, Mr. Ellis. And we’re going to take these fuckers down,”

  Boucher slipped a hand in her coat pocket. “We found this in your office. Thought you’d want it back,” she said, her voice soft as she placed a small object on the table. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Boucher left.

  The elephant pendant lay on the table, blinking lights from the machines reflecting in its shiny surface. Dante reached out to pick it up. The hoses restrained his arm, the phantom hand prickling as he let it fall back to the bed.

  “Fuck,” he said.

  CHAPTER 58

  Marionette

  Red neon crept in below the curtains from outside, shifting to a soft purple every time the blue vacancy sign blinked on. Briana had asked for a room in the back, but the only one available was above the office, overlooking the parking lot. The old man behind the counter looked harmless enough. There could still be tiny cameras hidden in clocks and toilets though. She’d keep the lights off.

  Sitting on the edge of the twin mattress, hands worried together in knots, Briana wondered what she was going to do. Her laptop sat beside her, closed up tight. She wasn’t ready to face the onslaught of shocked and angry responses that likely filled her inbox. Hopefully things wouldn’t seem so bleak in the light of morning. Her exhausted mind flitted through the evening’s events before seizing on the moment she heard those terrible words.

  Daddy knows.

  The bewildered taxi driver sat there, staring, as she pushed in through the front security gate, panic flaring up inside as she dashed up the stairs and down the hall to the apartment door. Hesitating, her hand gripped the doorknob. Leish had to have known about the camera in the hyena’s eye. She’d also convinced Briana to dance for the webcam show. Her face flushed.

  Had her father watched the video yet?

  Briana had to get out of here. She turned the knob and pushed the door open, letting it swing wide until it rested against the stopper.

  The apartment was dark except for a blue wash from the television. It was a reality show, the volume low, voices barely a murmur. Leish lay curled up on the couch wearing only a long t-shirt, her back to the door. She remained still as Briana strode down the hallway to her room.

  Tearing open drawers, she stuffed everything into her suitcase then went back down the hall to the studio door. It was dark inside, so she kept the door open to see. Grabbing a plastic bag full of shoes that hung on the clothing rack, she emptied them on the floor. Briana hopped on the stage and swept all the money that still lay there inside the bag as she crept backward. Her foot dropped off the edge and she stumbled back into the table piled with masks, causing some to fall.

  Why did Leish have all these fucking masks? she wondered.

  Briana shoved them off onto the floor. One of the brittle porcelain ones shattered, but it did little to quell her anger. Something dark lay among the bright shards and she knelt to get a closer look. It was a stack of crisp one hundred-dollar bills, held together by a thick rubber band. That went into the bag as well.

  If it was stealing, she didn’t care. Consider it asshole tax.

  Back in her room, Briana stuffed the bag of cash in her suitcase and sat on the lid so she could snap the latches. On her way out, her hand closed around the barrel of the shotgun, still draped under the dazzle camo. She shoved the box of shells into her hip pocket and walked into the living room.

  Leish was sitting up, knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs. Her face was blank as Briana swept past. A dark bruise encircled each eye. Dried blood smeared from her nose across one cheek. Briana stopped, mouth falling open as she stared in shock.

  “Oh my God, Leish.”

  The TV flashed, went dark then flashed again before the video of them together in the bedroom played in a loop. Leish stood, walked over and clutched the top of the screen. With a ragged scream she wrenched it off the wall with a shriek of rending plastic. She danced out of the way as the huge TV tilted over, the upper corner crashing into the floor. The screen shattered with a rippling crack. The whole thing laid askew, wires stretched taut from where they disappeared into the wall. Connections popped free with a twang as the weight of the huge screen slid all the way to the floor with a thud, sparks leaping from the rear as it crashed onto the floor.

  Leish took one step back then collapsed to her knees. “We did what they wanted. But they still sent it to everybody,” she said. “Every one of my contacts. My little brother saw it. All his friends saw it. He’s only eleven years old.”

  Briana let the suitcase and gun fall from her grasp. Rushing over, she knelt down in front of Leish, grabbing her shoulders. The young woman blinked, the light in her eyes gone. Briana shook her roughly.

  “Look at me, Leish. Who did this?”

  “Wanna hear a joke?” Leish said, her voice far off. “What do you tell a bitch with two black eyes?”

  Briana let out a shuddering sigh. She’d already heard this one. “Nothing,” she said. “You’ve already told the bitch everything she needs to know.”

  Leish looked up at her, lips trembling, light dawning in her eyes.

  “You too?” she said, eyes brimming with tears.

  Briana nodded, then held the broken young woman as she sobbed. After a time when she’d quieted some, Briana took Leish’s hands in hers.

  “Come with me,” Briana said.

  “Where?”

  “Away from Mel and scumbag movie producers and this whole, shitty, fake ass life.”

  “No,” Leish said, pulling her hands free. “He didn’t mean for it to be so bad. It just, got away from him.”

  “That first day, when you showed me the studio, I wondered why you had all those masks. He hits you, and you hide it. For him.”

  Leish opened her mouth to speak then closed it again. Her face darkened and she turned away. “You don’t understand.”

  “You don’t have to live like this,” Briana said. “I ran away. You can too. Come with me now and we’ll figure it out, together. Okay?”

  “I love him,” Leish said as she rolled on her side, face turned away. When she spoke again her voice was muffled. “Mel got into trouble with some people called Dark Messiah. Hackers or something, I don’t know. Real trouble. They were going to dox him, ruin his life. They needed somebody to do something for them. I chose you. Nothing personal. Mel begged for my help. You should have seen him. He was so lost, like a little boy. I had to do it.”

  “So, you’re like them.” Briana’s vision blurred. “You’re worse than them. At least Mel and that fucking producer are honest about what they are. You’re not a hyena, Leish. You hide behind this girl power charade but underneath it all, you’re just another whore in training…”

  Briana stopped, her mother’s words tasting bitter as she heard them fall from her lips. Leish lay folded up on the floor, like a marionette who’d just had her strings cut. Her pale arms and legs looked so thin, lusterless blue hair fanned out over the floor in a ratty tangle. Sour heat erupted in Briana’s stomach, nauseous and panicky.

  She had to get away.

  Backing up, she grabbed the suitcase and gun before rushing out the door and down to the elevator, the dazzle camo fluttering behind. She stumbled inside as the doors opened and sat down hard on her suitcase, biting back the scream she knew would break loose sooner or later.

  Just not now.

  She found herself down in front of the Whiskey a Go Go, this time with a crowd of people lined up to get inside. How excited she’d been to be on that very spot.
It felt like a million years ago. Ignoring the drunken jeers behind her, Briana hopped in as a yellow taxi pulled up to the curb.

  “Take me to a motel. Someplace cheap,” she said, falling into the back seat. It was the same cabbie who’d dropped her off when she’d first arrived. Snowy white hair and pale gray eyes. With a nod, he lurched into traffic then cut a wide U turn, nosing the car east.

  The bright lights fell away behind them. She felt his eyes on hers in the rear-view mirror.

  “I remember you,” he said.

  “I think I’ll take that advice now.”

  “Go home.”

  “I can’t,” Briana said, her voice small. She laid down across the seat and let herself sob. It was an ugly cry, but it helped take the edge off a little.

  “Maybe it’s time to find a new home,” the cabbie said.

  A horn bleated outside the hotel, startling her out of her reverie. Briana crept to the window and peered outside. Only one street lamp burned out of the five or so that dotted the lot, its greenish glow barely pushing back the night. A few cars and trucks were scattered throughout the motel parking lot, beat up and dingy. Most of the other rooms were dark. In the sky, the lights of a plane winked, shimmering, screened through the low, orange clouds trapped by the heat.

  Briana crawled back to the bed and lay down, curling up on her side. She hadn’t seen one drone since leaving the apartment. And why would I? she thought. They were done with her. She regretted that little trick she’d pulled with the retrocam. She was just so tired of being used and discarded, feeling completely out of control of her own life.

  And now, her life was in ruins.

  She fell into a fitful sleep and dreamed of dragonflies hunting her through a field of yellowed corn stalks as an icy wind shrieked a discordant hymn of loss overhead.

  CHAPTER 59

  Heavy Hand

  The cat clock tick-tocked out in the kitchen, a reminder that life still marched on. Gary could picture its eyes looking back and forth, watching without seeing. He couldn’t remember being able to hear it in their bedroom before.