Sword of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  “Thank you for showing me this, Officer,” Duilio says as the other dives into his food, perhaps as a defense or distraction, though he pauses long enough to look at the speaker, nodding. “If I am delayed long in this city, I will become a regular here.”

  “I am sorry to say this, but I hope you’re not.”

  “I completely understand.” Duilio nods, having another deep drink of his coffee, swallowing the strong, sweetened brew. “You hope the man suspected of this is no longer here.”

  “Man …,” he murmurs, chewing.

  “Hmm?” Duilio snags, pulling on the line, eyebrows rising.

  Gonzales looks at him, leaning back, chewing intently, downing the food with his own swallow of coffee, then he wipes his mouth with a napkin.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but I hope he’ll get gunned down, but …”

  “But?” Duilio continues, slowly reeling, coaxing the unsure fish.

  “Well, they say he was shot a whole bunch of times, but it didn’t do anything to him. I mean … how does a person survive that? How does a person just keep going?”

  “They … say?”

  “Not everyone that was at the station that night was killed, and some saw enough of what happened.”

  “Were you one of them?”

  “No,” the young officer is quick to inform, shaking his head, “I’d probably be dead if I had been there.”

  Duilio picks up on much from this, but he just continues looking. He brings his cup to his mouth, sipping slowly, eyes staying on the man.

  “Most of the Christians in this country are Protestants,” the cop begins, and Duilio narrows his eyes behind the obscuring shades of his sunglasses, still just silently listening and watching. “You may easily guess that I’m not. My family is Roman Catholic. My parents, though, are much more devout. I’ve … lost some of my faith. I still go to church every Sunday, for my wife and kids. My grandmother used to tell me stories. They were scary stories, then they just seemed more fascinating. Then, when I was grown, they seemed like a waste of time.”

  “What kind of stories?” Duilio asks.

  “About the Devil … and demons.”

  Duilio chuckles softly, apologetically. “What sort of grandmother tells such tales to her grandchildren?”

  “I know,” Gonzales huffs out a stunted chuckle within a sheepish grin, then he looks as serious as ever. “I guess it’s meant to scare you straight, sí?”

  “You wear a badge now, so it worked.” Duilio smiles, and another brief chuckle is exchanged, and again, it is gone as quickly, traded for that fearful intensity the young officer shows unable to shake.

  “I am trained and given authority and powers to hunt criminals. Human criminals.”

  “What exactly are you trying to tell me, Officer Gonzales?”

  The cop looks around, his eyes barely stuttering in their assessment, as he has seated himself to have a good view of the area, then he exhales at length, leaning in close. Duilio comes in, too, trying to encourage and reassure the man.

  “That thing that killed all of my co-workers, my friends, slaughtered them … slaughtered. It was not human.”

  “Homicidal psychosis can lead to savage, horrible behavior that we do not think of as being typically human.”

  “I appreciate what you’re trying to say, Inspector, and I’m not stupid. I went to college for two years before joining the force. I’m saying that this … thing is not human. It withstood a firing squad. It was in leg shackles. Shackles, Inspector, and cuffed, and it broke free. I don’t know what the report the captain gave you will say, if it addresses that at all, but it broke out, then it broke the steel door that goes into the interrogation room.

  “That thing ... is not human,” the officer concludes, eyes drilling into Duilio.

  “Then what is it?” he finally asks into the increasing silence.

  “A demon.”

  “A demon?” Duilio retorts, brow furrowing, as he leans back, and he does his best to hide his true reaction. “Come now, Officer, I know the situation is stressful but-.”

  “You’re from Italy,” Gonzales carries on, “From Interpol. Fine. You were vetted. You know that. You work for Interpol, but you are also from Italy. The Vatican is also in Italy.”

  “Yes …?” Duilio agrees, guardedly.

  “I’m not asking for verification. I know how this sort of thing works. This demon appears, slaughters a bunch of people, citizens and cops, then it just disappears, and then you show up here … from Italy,” the officer assesses, and Duilio does not correct him that he did not come directly from Italy. “I think you work for the Vatican, or some secret organization that works for the Vatican or whatever. It’s like exorcism. The Church won’t acknowledge it, but it’s in the Bible, and priests are trained to do it. I understand why it’s better for the general public to not literally believe in demons like that. But you’re here, and I bet you’re not just working for Interpol. You’re here to hunt a demon.”

  The man gives his eyes to Duilio for a moment as though extra evidence to his conclusion, then he raises his fork, not having ceased his hold on the utensil this entire time, making ready to resume his meal.

  “Officer Gonzales,” Duilio begins, hands coming up.

  “No, no,” the cop replies, chewing fast, swallowing. “Don’t confirm or deny. It doesn’t matter. I hope you find and kill this thing soon. I hope you do before it kills anyone else. It’s unholy, and it needs to die.”

  Gonzales quickly finishes his meal, leaving Duilio there smoking in contemplative silence, the two deciding it is best if their cars do not leave the lot at the same time. Of course, anyone could have seen them sitting and talking together, but Duilio acquiesces to the young officer’s wish. He decides he might as well have another cup of the fine coffee, and when he rises and turns to head back, he sees the man there.

  He is white, so he already stands out from the others, but it is clear he is the slender man Duilio spied in the waiting area of the local police station - the man with the gray eyes. He is also smoking, leaning up against the front of a dirty, black Chevrolet Silverado. He does not look away when Duilio sees him, instead casually walking over, boots kicking up some dust from the parking surface. If he were wearing a cowboy hat instead of the ball cap, and if the truck were a horse, it would complete the picture all the better.

  “Good morning, Signor,” he greets.

  “Good morning,” Duilio guardedly replies, noticing the man has used Italian, or he is mispronouncing Spanish. Still the subtle correctness of it makes him think it is on purpose.

  “How do you like the coffee here?” he asks, eyes moving down to the empty vessel then back up.

  “It is excellent.”

  “Good, let me buy you a cup.”

  “That won’t be-,” Duilio tries, but the man is on his way, walking up to the counter.

  “Dos más cafés, por favor,” he orders, then turns back, eyes squinting at Duilio, despite the brim of the cap.

  Duilio waits, deciding to play this out for now, getting the coffee with a ‘thanks’, and once the two are done with their mixings, they return to the table. The man likes a lot of sugar in his. He sips, blinking rapidly, then shakes his head.

  “That is good,” he agrees.

  “Who are you?” Duilio asks.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” the man says, speaking with the touch of a rural accent of his own, though his is less detectable than the general ‘natives’ of the area, “Pardon my manners.” He extends a hand across the table. “I’m David Felcraft.”

  “Felcraft?” Duilio replies, barely managing to not stutter, then takes the proffered hand after a very short, awkward delay, shaking.

  “Yes.” David nods once, then steels his eyes. “And you are?”

  “Oh, of course.” Duilio exhales into a stunted chuckle. “Gaspare Duilio.”

  “Pleased to meetcha, Signor Duilio.”

  “Oh, Gaspare is fine.”

  David ju
st sets a thin grin on him, then goes back to his coffee when the hands are released, taking a lengthy taste, swallowing.

  “You’ve heard of my family.”

  Duilio almost sputters over his own drink.

  “I … It’s just a curious … uh, interesting name.”

  “So’s Duilio. So’s Malkuth.”

  Duilio blinks rapidly, his lips parting. He swallows, then brings up his coffee cup, the eyes of the other not ever stopping in their observance. Duilio drinks down more of the brew, then he coughs lightly, nodding.

  “Yes, another interesting name.”

  “You work for them,” David states.

  “I work for Interpol,” Duilio rejoinders.

  “Oh,” David responds, his pale eyebrows going up, lips pursing a bit, and he nods slowly. “I bet that’s exciting, but … not as exciting as this.”

  “I don’t know what you-.”

  “Okay, so I look like I could pass for a local here, though I’m not. And though you might understand the Mexicans, you’re obviously not one of them. How many Italians do you think choose this as their vacation destination when coming to America, hmm?” He raises those eyebrows again, his lips curled into a smile within the healthy goatee.

  “I am not here on vacation.”

  “Of course not,” David gives, “And I saw you in the police station, and you saw me. You weren’t there to report a purse stolen. You’re here because of the murders.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “And you’re not a Malkuth; you just work for them.”

  Duilio prepares another round of protests, but again, he is cut off.

  “Okay, so here’s the situation.” David pushes his empty cup aside, having quickly polished off the coffee, and he fishes out a cigarette from the pack of Marlboros. After lighting it, he holds out the zippo, offering the flame. Duilio blinks, face rising up a quick tick, then he pulls out one of his own, Gauloise, holding it between his lips and partaking of the ignition with a muttered thanks before David closes it and continues. “We encountered the Demon first, and we sent word to the Malkuths. We lost one of our own to it. Did they tell you that?”

  “No.” Duilio blinks, realizing he has just confessed.

  “That doesn’t surprise me. You’re in over your head, Signor,” David says, leaning aside to tuck the lighter back into the pocket of his jeans, peering sidelong at Duilio with those eyes again squinted, then he settles back, exhaling smoke. “So, we know they’re going to be out here, hunting, and my cousin sent me to try to pick up the trail, so I see someone like you in the police station, and I figure you’re working for them. I know enough of the Malkuths to know them. Just like they know me.

  “I also know this is a bad one we’re hunting,” David adds, leaning closer, “One of the worst in a long time. Worst I’ve ever known about, and they send you. I don’t mean this as an insult, Signor, but you are not equipped for this.”

  Duilio sighs, parting his lips in thought, eyes moving away then back to those of the other man. He takes a deep drag of his cigarette, nodding as he exhales.

  “I know, I know,” he agrees, “But I am here to do a job, and I will do it.”

  David nods once, firmly. “I respect that. They told you to look for signs of it, find the trail, right? Then what?”

  “Notify them.”

  “Well, good, at least there’s that. I’m supposed to do that, too.”

  Duilio crinkles his forehead.

  “There are several of us in the area, hunting, but there are never that many of us. My cousin wanted me at ground zero, so I’m here, and I’ll pick up the trail. Maybe the Malkuths just stuck you out here as bait. Maybe they want you watching me and sending back reports.”

  “I … they did not say anything to me about anyone like you being here.”

  “Of course, they didn’t, but you’re going to tell them now, aren’t you?”

  Duilio’s spine slowly stiffens as he rises up, realization dawning on him.

  “Look, I’m not here to try to get you to quit them and join us, but this is how they operate. They are very cold with their resources, and everything is ‘need to know’.”

  Duilio nods.

  “They will keep you in the dark forever, and they will use you as they like, and a lot of that, you won’t even know about. That’s just it. That’s just their way.”

  “And the Felcrafts are different?” Duilio pitches, somewhat challenging, though he just as quickly does not know why he would defend the Malkuths; perhaps he is just trying to defend himself and his lot in life.

  “Yes,” David flatly answers.

  Some time passes, the two in quiet thought, smoking.

  “We can work together,” David then says.

  “How? I thought you two were rivals.”

  “We are, but we’ve got a common enemy. You understand that? We’re just like two opposing teams in a race to get across the River Styx but Cerberus is there, trying to stop all of us. We’d better work together to kill him, then we can get back to the race.”

  “Interesting symbolism,” Duilio comments, wondering how truly apt it is.

  “We told them about this one.”

  “So you said.”

  “Ask them when you talk to them next time. They’re not that stupid to think we wouldn’t have anyone here. Of course, I didn’t have to approach you, but I did.”

  Another moment stretches, more time to ponder.

  “I think we ought to work together,” David suggests, “You let them know that, too. It’ll be better for you, anyway, because if you do find that thing, you will die.” Those three words emerge with a cold finality unlike the simmering geniality of the man’s usual tone. “I don’t know if you’d have time to get off a message, and that’s all they care about. They don’t care if it slaughters you. But if you are with me, well, if we find it, then you turn and run as fast as you can, then you can send them a message.”

  “And what would you be doing?”

  “I’d be trying to kill it.”

  “How gracious of you,” Duilio speaks slowly, his words dripping with sarcasm.

  “If you want to take this as me trying to sell you something, then fine, I guess I am, in a way. But I am also trying to help you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m a Felcraft, and that’s our way,” he says, then gives a little nod and a grin, dropping his cigarette butt in the coffee cup before grabbing it and rising to leave.

  “How would I contact you?” Duilio asks, though he suspects he knows the answer.

  “Oh, I can find you easily enough. I figure I’d give you a chance to talk to them about this. I’ll look you up soon.” And with that, he meanders past the trash can to throw in his cup, climbing into his pickup and driving away.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Another dark, somewhat dilapidated building, but this one is not a warehouse. Its height shows five stories, the windows of the first suggesting that floor holds more space, while those above hint at the limits to the top access. The architecture is not terribly old, the colors looking bled, if there had been much at all to begin with. This place had been cheap housing when it was originally built, and now it is assumed to be for the very poor. Its true control and use is much more nefarious.

  Lilja holds place at a decent distance, standing in the darkness cast by two other structures. It is night, but light needs to be avoided. She wears her dark clothing, but without the gear and head covering, she looks almost passable as a ‘normal’ person.

  She watches through the small binoculars, noting the traffic of the building. There is not much, but there is some activity. She sometimes spies movement in the windows, but the vast majority of them look to be obscured in some manner, not so easily willing to give up the secrets of what goes on inside. The night is quiet, and she pulls her left foot back almost casually, the sole of the jika-tabi creating an inordinately loud scrape against the ground.

  The place and its goings-on have been tra
cked from the train station and a quite popular shopping mall. Those inside against their will have not all been procured via the methods one might expect, some of those overly risky or sadistic, and it makes her wonder of this new crime boss. He is not just after illicit sources of income.

  Last year, Skot had told her that the blood sacrifices along with the mounting, coalescing negative energies had produced a gateway for the Demons. She had seen it. She had been there when it had been closed. She had been aware, without realizing it, of the efforts that were underway to unwittingly cause that to happen. Evil was begetting evil. And now she sees it potentially happening again, and quite possibly, in a worse way.

  The city is befouled with bad fortune, but she knows that is not just due to chance. Skot had also explained something of ley lines to her, a topic she is not unfamiliar with. The City sits atop a potent intersection, making it a good site for just such ‘supernatural’ activities. She is no longer just fighting the prevalent crime that appears to find this area so attractive but also the underlying, darker energies of the Infernal. The two intertwine.

  Even with the information she has at her disposal, she would normally feel that this operation is not ready. She is not as secure as she’d like in various facets of intel. What is the true scope of the defense? How many guards? What is their weaponry? What sort of sensors or alarms or other security systems? The place is somewhat exposed, boasting, of course, a certain amount of armed sentries, but other than that, she is not sure. Is there really such a lack, or has she just not yet found it?

  Still, she does know there are children being held inside and used in horrible ways, and she feels she can wait no longer. After some more minutes of surveillance, she moves back to the hidden area that houses her motorcycle, a black Kawasaki Ninja ZX-6R, customized to be quieter and driven in such a way that is much stealthier than usual, and her gear. She retrieves what she needs from the bag, outfitting herself for the operation, having chosen her FN P90 for this, though unlike her and Skot’s descent into the underground, she now uses the subsonic ammunition and suppressor. The rounds are also obviously not the special ones used to hunt Demons. She has had quite the training lately to face these more dangerous, inhuman opponents, but those inside the building are still deadly. She checks her outfitting one last time before applying the black face paint, then cleaning her hands and donning the balaclava and tactical gloves. She then engages her motorcycle’s theft deterrence and heads out.