by Ethan Cross
The young female officer snapped, “Sir, that’s physical evidence. We can’t—”
“That’s enough, Liana. We have samples of the blood on the handles of his batons.”
Ackerman smiled and said, “Lee-anna. I like it. It suits you, which suits me, which is really all that matters.”
The captain said, “Pitka, go get the water. Now, please.”
Snapping to attention, the young officer nodded and rushed from the building.
As the door swung shut, Ackerman shot to his feet and attacked the metal bars separating him from the remaining officers. His spin kick struck with enough force to rattle the whole building. Both the captain and his subordinate involuntarily recoiled in fear. Ackerman laughed and said, “That other police captain I mentioned, the one who stole from me, ended up surviving under my care for weeks. I fed him a diet of his own flesh. We made a little game out of it. Perhaps I’ll also get to play with you. What do you think, Captain Yazzie? Would you like to know what you taste like? I have to admit that I’m curious. Perhaps we could share a piece.”
Officer Pitka, returning with the buckets of water, took one look at the expressions on the faces of his coworkers and said, “What did I miss?”
Yazzie replied, “Dowse him. We need to get a better look at our new friend.”
Ackerman could understand where the captain was coming from. He suspected it was quite unnerving for a normal to sit in the presence of a man whose torso was smeared with relatively fresh blood. Of course, Ackerman knew that Yazzie would be no less unnerved when he saw what was underneath the blood.
Most of Ackerman’s body was covered in scar tissue of one type or another. Some of the wounds had been inflicted courtesy of his deranged father—who had subjected him to unspeakable horrors and every pain imaginable in an attempt to engineer a perfect killing machine—but many of the scars had been earned during his various exploits. And many more were self-inflicted. Ackerman’s father had ultimately found no way to accomplish his goals without a bit of invasive brain surgery, and so, Francis Ackerman Sr. had performed delicate surgery on his son’s amygdala, the area of the brain responsible for a person’s sense of fear.
Still on his feet, Ackerman stepped forward and closed his eyes as he awaited the water. His hands remained behind his back and much of the gore wouldn’t rinse free without some scrubbing, but within a few seconds, the officers had succeeded in washing away a large percentage of the blood, enough to better reveal his face and his scars.
Liana gasped and quickly clamped a hand over her mouth as the roadmap of his pain was revealed. He looked down at himself, something that he rarely did. He didn’t like to dwell upon the past. But in this instance, he gazed down at his wounds with analytical eyes, trying to see the scars in the way that Liana saw them. He flexed the thick cords of sinew in his arms and watched the cuts and burns and gunshot wounds ripple in the artificial glow of the fluorescent lighting.
He wondered if the female was appalled or aroused by his naked torso. Perhaps a bit of both. He said, “I certainly feel refreshed. Is Mr. Canyon on his way?”
“Why would he be?” Yazzie asked.
“Don’t insult me with a half-hearted attempt at pretending that you’re a real cop. You’re a glorified security guard. The lot of you are. Keeping watch over Canyon’s town and his enterprises. My guess is that you were on the phone with him when the distress signal went out from Liana. And if you weren’t on the phone already, then that means that you called your master on the way.”
“I’m no man’s slave. But you’re right. I was on the phone with John, and he is on his way down from the ranch as we speak. I suggest you get a drink of water and get ready to do some talking. You can either talk to me, or talk to John. And when he asks a question and doesn’t like the answer, he’s likely to tear off all your fingernails.”
A grin forming across his handsome face, Ackerman said, “It’s been a while since I’ve had a partner on my dance card who really knows how to tango. And I so enjoy a good torture.”
“We’ll see how cocky you are when Big John gets here. You’d be a damn sight better off to just tell me what happened before he gets here, son.“
“Patience, captain. Patience is the first of two lessons every hunter must learn.”
“What’s the other?”
“Stay downwind of your prey. A hunter who fails in either of these arenas will either be going home hungry or will end up becoming someone else’s dinner.”
“And you’re an expert hunter. That right?”
“I’m an expert at many things. And yes, I am quite experienced in that arena. I enjoy the hunt. The anticipation of the kill. But I prefer consummation over foreplay.”
The captain pulled over a metal chair, the legs scraping against the linoleum floor the whole way. Sliding down onto the chair, Captain Yazzie said, “We have a forensic kit that can determine whether or not you came in here covered in human or animal blood. What’s that test going to show?”
“I love the smell of blood. Researchers in Sweden recently documented that a single molecule of a chemical released when lipids in blood break down after being exposed to air—the same molecule that gives it that metallic smell—causes humans to recoil and other predatory animals to lick their lips in anticipation. I suspect the Swedes would catch me salivating at the smell of blood. It is so sweet and beautiful to me, while it causes instinctive reactions of fear and revulsion in you normals. Perception and relativity, I suppose.”
“Come on, give me something. How about your name?”
Ackerman considered that. He couldn’t give his real name because the infamous serial murderer Francis Ackerman was officially dead. The Shepherd Organization had even paid for a plastic surgeon to change his face enough that no one could possibly recognize him.
He said, “You may call me…Frankenstein. Or Frank, for short.”
6
Ackerman felt his mutilations would fall, on the spectrum of horrific disfigurement, somewhere between the burns of Freddy Krueger and the wartime injuries inflicted upon Rambo. Thankfully, his father had been strategic with the abuse, in order to avoid detection. The scars were all concealable by a long-sleeved shirt, but of course, he wanted them to see the evidence of the crucible that was his life.
The young and rather beautiful Liana couldn’t seem to pry her eyes from his torso. His body didn’t contain an ounce of fat, but he knew that it wasn’t his physique drawing her attention. He could see her analyzing the scars for a method behind the madness. He made a mental note to ask her later about what conclusions she had reached.
Captain Yazzie said, “Frankenstein. Frank, that’s cute. I can see from that little roadmap of pain you call an epidermis that torture isn’t going to have much effect on you. How about I talk and you let me know if I’m on the right track?”
Ackerman fought to keep his concentration on the Tribal Police captain and the situation at hand, but he could already feel the breath on the back of his neck, the shadow at his back. Over his shoulder, he heard his father say, “I think we should kill every one of these people and be done with it. This is boring me to tears.”
Ackerman’s father—the serial killer known as Thomas White—walked around to the front of the cell and stood in front of the police captain. Through it all, Ackerman kept his face as stone. Internally, he wanted to scream and break something. For the past few months, he had been hearing the voice of his father in his head, but up until recently, the voice had only spoken phrases that had been lifted from actual memories. But during a recent confrontation with a serial killer who called himself the Gladiator, the voice in his head had begun to speak as if it had a mind of its own.
And then, in the hospital following the Gladiator ordeal, Thomas White had appeared in the flesh. Or at least Ackerman perceived him that way. The hallucination had been so vivid that he had called for the nurse and asked her if she could also see the mad doctor in the three piece suit. She had looked at him as i
f his tongue had crawled out of his mouth like a large pink leech. The real doctor she summoned had wanted to run more tests on him, but he had better things to do and had convinced the doctor that he would handle the matter with his primary care physician.
Now, with Maggie missing and possibly dead and him back in another cage, he wondered if he should have heeded the doctor’s advice.
Thomas White said, “It feels so good to have the band back together again, doesn’t it, Junior?”
Behind his father, the police captain said, “Are you still with me, kid? If I get the story right, will you help me fill in the blanks?”
Ackerman said, “I can’t stop you from talking just yet, but by that same token, you can’t keep me from ignoring you.”
The imaginary Thomas White laughed. “That’s the spirit, Junior. Try to outthink this. Make a game out of it, just like you always did with everything, in order to deal with the pain. But that was before the gifts I gave you. I helped you to transcend pain and master fear.”
Captain Yazzie said, “You were right. Mr. Canyon did call me. But that would be the sensible thing for a man to do when a crazy person has attacked his ranch.”
Ackerman said, “I didn’t attack anyone. I merely analyzed the current situation and applied pressure where it was required.”
“Mr. Canyon claims that you set one of his trucks on fire and rolled it into his reserve fuel depot.”
Ackerman nodded. “As I said, the proper amount of force for the situation.”
“And what situation is that? Why would you feel the need to do anything to John or his property?”
“I needed to get his attention.”
Thomas White leaned against the bars, arms crossed, looking bored. He said, “If you wanted to get his attention, you should have followed my advice and dragged his whole family out of the house and started executing them one by one until he told what he’s done with your brother’s concubine.”
Ackerman gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to defend Maggie’s honor. He reminded himself that his father wasn’t actually there. Unless the old man had mastered some form of astral projection.
Captain Yazzie said, “You certainly managed to get his attention. I think a better choice would have been to call his office and make an appointment or at the very least knock on his door. That’s usually sufficient in getting someone’s attention.”
Ackerman shrugged. “Let’s not split hairs here, captain. Overkill would have been dragging all of them out into the night and chopping off body parts with a chainsaw until Mr. Canyon properly received my message. Your proposed solution, on the other hand, would have been too far down on the other end of the spectrum. I feel my actions were quite proportionate.”
“You could have killed a lot of people. He has bunkhouses out there—”
“The variables were considered. As they have been considered ten steps ahead of your feeble mind in this instance. Besides, the point is moot as no one was killed in the truck explosion. It was merely a diversion.”
“A diversion for what? Why did you need to get Canyon’s attention?”
“You haven’t asked me about the blood yet.”
“I was working my way up to it.”
Thomas White walked around behind Ackerman and placed imaginary hands on real shoulders. Ackerman could have sworn that he could feel actual pressure from his father’s touch. White said, “May I suggest a small edit to your plan here.”
Ackerman said, to both the captain and his father, “I’m listening. Get on with it.”
The police captain leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and asked, “What did you do with Tobias Canyon and the others with him? Are they dead?”
“Consider this, Junior,” Thomas White said. “If you really want to convey the dire nature of these straits, then you should kill these three, pose them like marionettes, and secure yourself back in the cell. Now that would get the attention of this Canyon fellow.”
Ackerman said, “No one need die here. Your benefactor, John Canyon, took someone from me. So I took someone from him. Perhaps it’s a bit simplistic. Schoolyard logic, for sure. But I think it holds up. If he returns my friend, then I’ll return his son.”
He could imagine the wheels turning behind the dark black glasses covering Yazzie’s eyes. The captain said, “Who’s your friend?”
Leaning forward, Ackerman slowly asked, “You can see him too?”
“What? See who? Try to stay with me here, kid. You said Canyon took your friend. Who exactly is he supposed to have kidnapped?”
“Oh, that makes much more sense. She is a federal agent who went missing while investigating Mr. Canyon. Her name is Maggie Carlisle. Surely you remember her, captain.”
“I’m afraid not. Just like I told the FBI agent and BIA agents when they asked. She never came here.”
Thomas White was suddenly standing behind Captain Yazzie. Ackerman’s hallucination cocked his balding head and said, “You see that. He’s lying right to your face. Are you going to stand for this kind of malicious disrespect, Junior?”
Ackerman said, “That’s interesting, Captain Yazzie. We were able to track her cell phone to this exact location. She made a call while she was here, one of her last before disappearing.”
“She must have stopped by while we were out on a call. None of my officers saw her either. But we can discuss that later, Frank. I’ll help you find your friend. I really will. But right now, I need to know if Tobias and those other boys are okay. Do they need medical attention?”
With a roll of his eyes, Ackerman dropped onto the bunk against the back wall and said, “I really wish all of you normals would stop asking me stupid questions. I need you to understand something, captain. When you look into my eyes, you are looking into eyes that have watched countless die. I have felt all pain. I have known all depravity. I have experienced the heights of sadistic ecstasy, and I have endured the pits of hell and the valley of death. Now, you look me in the eyes and answer me one question. Do you know where Maggie Carlisle is right now?”
With a small shake of his head, the captain replied, “No, I have no idea.”
“Then you’re of no use to me. I have a suggestion. Let’s all sit here quietly until the man who can actually answer my question shows up.”
The impetuous Officer Liana said, “And what if Canyon can’t answer your questions either? Or what if your friend is dead? What will you do then, Frank?”
Ackerman could tell that her question was genuine. She was asking out of fear of his retaliation, not trying to be facetious. Thomas White—who he could now only hear in his head—said, “That’s a good question, Junior. What will you do if Ms. Maggie is no more? Maybe that will be my opportunity to take your flesh suit for a little spin. Or maybe you’ll merely resort back to your true nature and do what you were born to do. It could be just like old times. Father and son, together again.”
As he looked up into the eyes of the frightened young American Indian woman, Ackerman answered honestly, “If Maggie’s dead…then God help us all.”
7
One month earlier…
The house hadn’t changed much in the eight years since Maggie Carlisle had been home. Not that she had expected anything to have fallen into disrepair. Even in her seventies, Grandma scrubbed out the gutters with soap and water once a week. Maggie caught a large whiff of grandmother’s home-made vinegar cleaning solution as she called out, “Grandma? Mom?”
Having called ahead and left a message so that her grandmother could prepare her room, Maggie had expected at least some sort of welcome. She passed through the kitchen, seeing the faded magnets stuck to the fridge warning about soda and cellular phones causing cancer. Judging by the silence, her family wasn’t home. The kitchen led right into the dining room, and from there, she took the hall to her old bedroom. The rolling wheels of her luggage created a steady thrum over the creaky wooden flooring, but the boards still shined liked diamonds under Grandma Helen’s diligent
care.
The bedroom, like the rest of the house, smelled of vinegar, indicating that Grandma Helen had cleaned her room in expectance of her arrival. Maggie moved to the window seat of her room, setting her luggage down. She would set her clothes up here, organized to her specific standards before she placed them into her dresser. Unzipping her suitcase, she pulled out a clean, precisely-folded sheet from the top and spread it over the window seat, carefully moving her favorite stuffed animals from her childhood. Once the sheet was down, Maggie began to unpack her clothing carefully. The perfect squares of fabric were organized by day and adjusted according to the forecast. She then organized her toiletries on top of her dresser before going to the bed and stripping the sheets off to wash them. She knew her grandmother would have already washed the bedclothes, but Maggie wasn’t taking any chances. Bed bugs were becoming an epidemic, and the mere thought of the vermin made her skin crawl.
Maggie lifted the mattress to free the sheets before carrying them to the laundry room down the hall. She made to leave, but hesitated. Grabbing the gallon jug of vinegar and a cleaning rag, she returned to her room. Her grandmother wouldn’t have cleaned inside the dresser or side tables of her old bedroom since she left. Helen was a private person who respected the privacy of others, and the drawers had been where Maggie kept all of her private journals and drawings. Grandma Helen had always cleaned around and under the dressers, but to her knowledge, her grandma had never opened them.
Leaning over the drawers to scrub them had caused her short blonde hair to fall into her face before she’d smoothed it back into a ponytail. She’d worked her way down from the top drawer of the three positioned in the dresser. The top two held several childhood mementos–old pictures of friends and family, certificates of excellency for school subjects, colored pencils, and other odds and ends of little significance.
The bottom drawer, however, was stuffed so full that Maggie could barely open it, nearly toppling backward when it finally came free. Inside, she found her collection of Beanie Babies. She smiled at the little animals, arranging them on the chair nearby. She couldn’t quite recall why she’d liked them so much, just that they had made her happy. At the bottom of the drawer, she found a brightly colored Lisa Frank notebook. Maggie vaguely recalled the sparkly unicorn on the front from her childhood. After retrieving the spiral-bound tablet from its hiding place, Maggie resisted the urge to go wash her hands again. Her tanned skin was already ruddy from the three preceding washings from the past hour. While she waited for her family to arrive home and for the vinegar in the drawers to dry, Maggie knew she should have been unpacking her MacBook Air and reviewing her notes on the Taker case, but the blindingly bright colors of the notebook caught her eye. She sighed in frustration at her urge to waste time away from the case to look through the old pages.
