Unrestricted Access: New and Classic Short Fiction

by James Rollins

  He touched base with Officer Miller every day, hoping for any news. All the while, the city held its breath for the next murder. Arthur learned from Miller that the latest victim, like the others, had also received his orchid on the morning of his death. It had been delivered to Louis May’s stoop, and twelve hours later the young man was dead.

  With morning coffee in hand, Arthur contemplated this cruelty, this promise of death delivered to a doorstep. He climbed to his rented room and returned to his cluttered workspace.

  There, resting on the keys of his typewriter, was a single white bloom.

  A Brassocattleya orchid.

  “Look, Mr. Crane,” Officer Miller said. “I can imagine you’re spooked, but folks around here think this might be a publicity stunt. To sell more papers.”

  Arthur stared dumbfounded across Miller’s desk into the crowded squad room. He had come straight here after finding the orchid. Right now it lay on the battered metal desk in front of him. “You can’t think—”

  Miller held up a beefy hand. “I don’t. I trust you plenty, but I can’t help you. My hands are tied.”

  Arthur’s stomach sank. He’d been fighting the police for hours, hoping for some kind of protection, but no one took him seriously. “How about I just sit in the police station then? Just for twenty-four hours?”

  “I can’t allow you to do that.” Miller’s freckled face looked concerned, but his chin was firm. He wouldn’t give in.

  “Then arrest me.”

  Officer Miller laughed at him. “On what charge?” Arthur punched him right in his freckled face.

  It took three days for the Times to bail Arthur out. In the interim, a fourth victim had received an orchid and had been murdered. The new death further convinced the police that Arthur either had been lying about the orchid or someone had played a cruel prank on the British reporter.

  Arthur knew better.

  Still, what did it mean? Had the killer passed him by? Or was he just biding his time to make the kill? Not knowing for sure, Arthur spent his first night of freedom in Sparky’s twenty-four-hour diner, afraid to go home. He brought a giant pile of notes and used the time to outline a book, a treatise about the murders. Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood had come out two years ago, and the narrative of those killers had mesmerized him. He wanted to do something similar, to find some way of making sense of these deaths, to nail them down between the cold, dispassionate pages of a book.

  Seated at a corner table of the diner, with a clear view to all the exits, he nibbled on his third piece of apple pie and downed his umpteenth cup of coffee. All night long, he had refused to give up his table, despite the jaundiced glances from the waitress.

  But now the sky had pearled to a pale gray, and he knew it was time to move on. He could not live inside the diner forever. So he packed up his things, left a generous tip for the waitress, and trudged toward his apartment. As he walked, he rubbed the grit from his exhausted eyes. He squinted at the sun breaking over a boarded-up and abandoned storefront ahead. The five-story building had become the home of squatters. It was regularly raided, emptied, only to fill again.

  As he crossed along it, he hefted his satchel of notes. He knew he could get a book out of these murders, something dark and fascinating and significant, the kind of thing that could make his career.

  A few meters away, a figure stepped out of the door of the dilapidated store, sticking to the shadows. Even though he was barely visible in the gloom, Arthur recognized him and stopped, stunned and incredulous.

  “Christian . . . ?”

  Before he could react, his brother was upon him, pulling him tightly in an embrace that was both intimate and frightening. Fingers dug into his shoulders, his elbow, hard enough to find bone.

  Arthur gasped, tried to pull away, but it was like trying to unbend iron. Pain weakened him further, forcing him to drop his bag.

  Lips moved to ear. “Come with me.”

  The breath was icy, smelling of sour meat and rot. The tone was not one of invitation but of demand.

  Arthur was lifted off his feet and dragged away, as easily as a mother with an errant child.

  In a moment, they were through the doorway and up a flight of rickety stairs to an upper room. Refuse littered the floor. Old ratty blankets bunched along the walls, abandoned by their former dwellers. The only place of order was a thick oak table in the center, its surface polished to a high sheen, so out of place here.

  As was the smell.

  Past the reek of sweat, waste, and urine came the wafting sweetness of honeysuckle and gardenia. The scent rose from a spray of white orchids, all Brassocattleya.

  If Arthur had any doubts as to the role Christian played in the recent murders, they were dispelled at this sight. The table looked like a shrine or an altar to some dark god.

  Arthur tried to struggle out of that iron grip, but he could not escape the hand clamped to his forearm. For his efforts, he was slammed against a wall, hard enough to bruise his shoulder, and pinned there. Fearing for his life, he searched for his only weapon, the same weapon that once drove the two brothers apart in the past.

  His words.

  But what could he say?

  Arthur looked at his attacker, dismayed by what he found there. Christian looked exactly the same—yet completely changed. His face and bearing were as they always had been, but now he moved with a speed and strength that defied reason. Worst of all, his gentle expression had turned hard and angry.

  Malice shone in eyes that were once bright and full of joy.

  Arthur knew this dreadful condition must be secondary to some kind of drug. He remembered the madman in the church, recalled the horror stories he had read of addicts on a new pharmaceutical called PCP. The drug had arrived in the Haight-Ashbury district just last year.

  Was that the explanation here?

  “You can stop this,” Arthur tried. “I can get you help. Get you clean.”

  “Clean?” Christian pushed his lips up into a ghastly grimace and laughed, a mocking rendition of his usual playful mirth.

  Changing tactics, Arthur tried reaching him through their shared past, to draw him out, to make him remember who he once was. “Brassocattleya,” he said, nodding to the table. “Like Mother grew and loved.”

  “They were for you,” Christian said.

  “The orchids?”

  “The murders.” Christian faced him, showing too many teeth. “The orchids were merely to lure you here. I knew you were at the Times and hoped word of the orchids would draw you here. That’s why I took that singer first, the one from London.”

  Arthur went cold, picturing Jackie Jake’s face. He had contributed to the poor man’s death.

  “You came sooner than I expected,” his brother said. “I had hoped to leave a longer trail of invitation before entertaining you here.”

  “I’m here now.” Arthur’s shoulder throbbed, aching even his teeth. “Whatever is wrong between us, we can fix it together.”

  Christian exposed his arm, turning it to reveal the pale scar on his wrist. Arthur had a matching scar.

  “That’s right,” Arthur said. “We’re blood brothers.”

  “Forever . . .” Christian sounded momentarily lost.

  Arthur hoped this was a sign of him finally coming out of his dark, drug-fueled fugue. “We can be brothers again.”

  “But only in blood.” Christian faced him, his eyes hard and cold. “Isn’t that right?”

  Before Arthur could answer, Christian threw him to the floor, riding his body down and straddling atop him. His brother’s white face hovered inches above his, those eyes reading his features like a book.

  Arthur tried to throw him off, but his brother was too strong.

  Christian leaned closer, as if to kiss him. Cold breath brushed against Arthur’s cheeks. His brother used a thumb to turn Arthur’s chin, to expose his neck.

  Arthur pictured the morgue photos of Christian’s victims, their throats ripped out.

 
No . . .

  He struggled anew, bucking under Christian, but there was no escaping his brother. Impossibly sharp teeth tore into the soft skin of his throat.

  Blood drowned Arthur’s scream.

  He wrestled against his death, struggled, cried, but in a matter of moments, the fight bled out of him. He lay there now as waves of pain and impossible bliss throbbed through his wounded body, borne aloft by each fading heartbeat. His arms and legs grew heavy, and his eyes drifted closed. He was weakening, maybe dying, but he didn’t care.

  In this bloody moment, he discovered the connection people sought through love, drugs, religion. He had it now.

  With Christian . . . It was right.

  Suddenly, that moment was severed, coldly interrupted.

  Arthur opened his eyes to find Christian staring down at him, blood dripping from his brother’s chin.

  In Christian’s eyes, Arthur read horror—and sorrow—as if the blood had succeeded where Arthur’s words had failed. Christian put an ice-cold hand against the wound on Arthur’s throat, as if he could stop the warm blood flowing out of it.

  “Too late . . .” Arthur said hoarsely.

  Christian pressed harder, tears welling. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  His brother stared down, clearly struggling to hold in check the evil inside him, to hold on to himself. Arthur saw his nostrils flare, likely scenting the spilled blood. Christian moaned with the need of it, but Arthur heard an undertone of defiance.

  Arthur wished he could help, to take away that pain, that struggle.

  He let that desire show in his face, that love of brother for brother.

  A tear rolled down Christian’s cheek. “I can’t . . . not you . . .”

  With both arms, he picked up Arthur, crossed to a window, and threw his body out into the sunlight. As he flew amid a cascade of broken glass, he stared back, seeing Christian withdraw from the sun, back into shadows, forever lost.

  Then Arthur crashed to the street.

  Still, darkness found him in that sunlight, swallowing him away. But not before he saw an orchid land on the pavement near his head, floating in a pool of his blood. The sweet scent of it filled his nostrils. He knew it would be the last thing he ever smelled.

  His mother would have been happy about that.

  An unknown number of days later, Arthur woke to pain. He lay in a bed—a hospital bed. It took him several breaths to work out that his legs were suspended in front of him, encased in plaster. Turning his head took all his effort. Through his window, he saw weak afternoon sunlight.

  “I see that you’re awake,” said a familiar voice.

  Officer Miller was seated on his other side. The police officer reached to a table, retrieved a water glass with a straw, and offered it. Arthur allowed the man to slip the straw between his lips. He drank the lukewarm water until it was all gone.

  Once done, Arthur leaned back. Even the short drink had left him exhausted. Still, he noted the purplish bruises ringing Miller’s eyes, courtesy of Arthur’s earlier sucker punch.

  Miller fingered the same. “Sorry we didn’t take you more seriously, Mr. Crane.”

  “Me, too,” he croaked out.

  “I have to ask . . . did you recognize the man who attacked you?”

  Arthur closed his eyes. In truth, he didn’t recognize the creature who had attacked him, but he did recognize the man who had flung him into the sunlight, away from the monster trying to claw back into control. In the end, Arthur knew Christian had saved his life. Could he condemn him now?

  “Mr. Crane?”

  Behind Arthur’s eyelids, he saw the face of Jackie Jake and the broken body of the man on the sidewalk. Even if he could forgive Christian’s attack on himself, he could not let that monster inside him continue to kill.

  Arthur opened his eyes and talked until he drifted off to sleep.

  When he awoke, it was night. He was terribly thirsty, and his legs still hung in front of him like a bizarre sculpture. A quiet murmuring off to the left must be the nurses’ station. He reached for the bell to summon—

  He was on the street, looking through eyes that were not his own. A brick tower loomed ahead of him. A church. In the middle of the tower was a door. A spill of light fell onto the dark front steps.

  Weeping, he ran toward the light, moving with a speed beyond imagining. Traffic droned next to him, and far away a siren sounded. None of that mattered. He had to reach that tower. He had to get through that door.

  But as he neared the church, a figure stepped into view, bathed in that warm glow from inside. It was a priest. Though the distance was great, whispered words reached his ear. “This is hallowed ground. Be warned, it is inimical to the curse within you. If you come, you will have but one choice. To join us or die.”

  The strange priest’s words proved true. With each step, the strength of his limbs faded. It was as if the ground itself drew energy away from him. Heat rose through his feet. For a second it was wonderful, because he was so cold. But then it burned him cruelly.

  Still, he did not stop. He lifted first one leaden leg and then another, fighting the heat and the weakness. He must reach that door, that priest. All depended on it.

  He was now close enough to note the gothic design, etched in verdigris, on the tall doors. He spotted the priest’s Roman collar, made of old linen, not modern plastic. He staggered now toward that man. Despite his weakness, he knew this one was like him, cursed but somehow enduring.

  How?

  The priest stepped back, beckoning him inside.

  He fell across the threshold and into a vast nave. Pillars and arches rose on either side of him, and far ahead candles burned on an altar.

  On his knees now, he burned within the holiness found here.

  Fire raged through his body.

  The priest spoke behind him. “Be welcome, Christian.”

  Arthur thrashed in his bed, still burning from his waking dream. A rope broke and dropped one of his legs. This new pain centered him, drawing him out of the flames.

  A nurse in a white cap rushed into the room. Seconds later, a needle pricked his arm, and everything blessedly went dark.

  Days later, Arthur awoke again. His head was clear, but he felt terribly weak. The nurses tried to convince him that his vision of burning in the church was a side effect of the morphine or a fever dream secondary to shock. He believed neither explanation. Instead, he carried those last words inside him, knowing they’d be etched there forever.

  Be welcome, Christian.

  Arthur knew somehow he had been connected to his brother for that brief, agonizing moment, perhaps a gift born of the blood they shared. He also remembered Wayne’s description of the priest who had come looking for Christian. Was that the same priest, offering some form of salvation for Christian, a path he might yet follow?

  Or was it all a bad trip, to use the vernacular of the youth thronging into San Francisco?

  Either way, Arthur slowly healed. Bedridden for most of it, he used his downtime to dictate his new book to an assistant hired by the newspaper. Her name was Marnie, and he would marry her as soon as he could stand.

  Following Arthur’s attack, the murders had suddenly stopped, but public interest had not waned. A year later, his book, The Orchid Killer, became an international bestseller. As far as the world was concerned, he had solved the case, even if the police had never apprehended Christian.

  His brother had simply vanished off the face of the earth. Most believed he was dead or had possibly even killed himself. But Arthur never forgot his dream of crawling on his knees into a church, burning in that holiness.

  He clung to his hopes that Christian yet lived.

  But if he was right, which one had survived that church?

  His brother or that monster?

  Summer, present day

  San Francisco, California

  As the sun sank toward the horizon, Arthur brought the orchid to his face and breathed in its fragrance. The pe
tals tickled his cheeks. He carried the blossom into his study. Books lined the walls, and papers covered his oak rolltop desk.

  In the years after Christian’s disappearance, Arthur had spent most of his life traveling, reporting, and chasing down leads about savage killings and mysterious priests, trying to find his brother, or at least to understand what had happened to him. It was a passion that he had shared with Marnie, until her death six months ago. Now he wanted only to finish the work and be done with it.

  With everything.

  At last, at the end of things, he was close.

  Several years ago, Arthur had uncovered rumors of a secret order buried deep within the Catholic Church, one that traced its roots to its most ancient days—a blood cult known as the Order of the Sanguines. He crossed to his desk and picked up a leaf from an old notebook, the edges ripped and curling.

  A photo had been taped to it. Someone had sent the picture anonymously to Arthur two years ago, with a short note hinting at its importance. It showed Rembrandt’s The Raising of Lazarus, portraying Christ’s resurrection of a dead man. Arthur had marked it up, annotating his many questions about this dark order, of the rumors he had heard.

  He let the sheet slip from his fingers, remembering the dream of a burning church.

  Had his brother joined this order in the past? He glanced at the orchid.

  If so, why come for me now, Christian?

  Arthur suspected the reason. It was stacked on his desk in a neat pile. Over the past decades, Arthur had gathered further evidence, enough to be believed, about this Sanguines cult within the Church. Tonight, his source—a representative of a group called the Belial—was scheduled to come and deliver the final piece of proof, something so explosive that the truth could not be denied.

  Arthur picked at one of the soft petals of the orchid.

  He recognized it as a threat, a warning, an attempt to silence him.

  Arthur would not be intimidated. As the day wore on, he tried repeatedly to reach his Belial source—a man named Simeon—to move up their evening meeting, but he could never reach the man. By that afternoon, Arthur considered simply fleeing, but he realized that there was no point in trying to hide. He was already in too deep. Besides, a recklessness had settled over him since Marnie’s death—he just didn’t care anymore.