Posts Tagged ‘short story


S. Crowe – Session 1 (Cont.)

(If you’ve missed where it started, you can find it over yonder!)

“If you’re certain. Though that does look quite painful. Potentially infected.”

Crowe rolled her shoulders again, seeming to retreat back into herself. Dorothea wondered if pursuing the subject of the girl’s injuries further would be worth it, then cast it aside. It was a symptom, surely, not the root.

“Alright, then. Do you remember the hospital where you woke up? What the doctor’s name was?”

Crowe’s lips parted, a thin hiss of air slipping free. One hand crept up to her face and she began gnawing an already ragged nail.

“Hanscomb. Dr. Hanscomb.”

Dorothea nodded, allowing her lips to quirk upward in a faint smile.

“That’s good,” she said. “But do you know why you remember that?”

Crowe gave a bark that Dorothea assumed was supposed to be some form of laughter, though it sounded more like an animal crying in pain.

“Yeah. I remember it because he was stupid. ‘Hanscomb like handsome, that’s me,’ he said.”

Her hand came away from her mouth, and she turned back to Dorothea, looking at her normally for perhaps the first time, the way one person looks to another when they’re having a cozy chat. Dorothea’s smile widened.

“That does sound a little… hokey, I suppose. But it stuck, did it not?”

“I guess. Doesn’t seem like such a great thing to me. I can remember some dumb doctor’s name when all he did was tap my knees, shine a light in my eyes, and tell me to talk to someone else. Hooray. Can’t remember my name or anything that happened before that, and wouldn’t be able to remember anything else if it weren’t for these stupid things, but yeah, great, progress.”

She rolled her eyes as she shook her mangled and braceleted arm in Dorothea’s direction.

Ah. Getting closer.

“Those help you to remember? How so?”

Dorothea suppressed a wave of worry as Crowe pulled back into herself, putting her knees to her chest and hugging them tightly. Perhaps she’d gone too far, too quickly.

“I dunno. Something…” Her voice trailed off, became almost dreamy. Her eyes went the corner of the room, losing focus as though she was looking at something much farther away than the potted plant that held watch there.

Dorothea let her stare for several seconds, not wanting to break whatever spell she’d inadvertently conjured. When nothing else seemed forthcoming, she leaned forward, hands clasped between her own knees.

“Something…?” she whispered.

Crowe nodded, and when she spoke again, it was in a singsong whisper that reminded Dorothea of when she would sing lullabies to herself as a child.

“Something my mother told me to do. If you can’t remember, snap a band and all is better.”

Dorothea eyed the other woman’s arm again, thinking that the behavior must go quite a bit farther back than this most recent memory loss. Whatever lay beneath the mass of hair ties and rubber bands was much more damage than could have been done over the course of only a few days.

Perhaps things like this occur often, she considered. Then she shook the thought out of her head. Regardless of how often this occurred, step one was resolving the current episode. Then healing could really begin.

“Do you remember your mother, Miss Crowe?”

There was near silence for several long seconds, broken only by Crowe’s hissing breath and the tick of the clock atop the mantle. When she answered, she was still speaking in that child’s voice.

“Sometimes. When I’m bad.”

KA Spiral no signature


Sleeping in

The harsh sound of ducks quacking interrupts the soothing voice of the British woman who has been talking to me for the last two hours. She’s currently telling me that she’d like me to touch the tip of my nose, then reach out and touch the tip of her finger repeatedly.

Both sounds come from the same place. My phone, lying on the bed. The ducks are just the alarm. I’d set it when I decided to take a nap, thinking it might improve my mood or give me the energy to do something besides watch television. An hour, I’d said. The hour was up, and then some.

I didn’t care. Without opening my eyes my thumb finds the right spot on the screen. The ducks stop; the British woman and her eye exam resume.

“Get up.”

The voice isn’t unexpected. It also doesn’t matter. I know if I look to the doorway, where it had come from, the owner of the voice wouldn’t be there, but I can picture him anyway: tall, pallid, thick mop of black hair, round glasses. A cigarette dangling from the corner of a scowling mouth, a tablet or laptop under one arm, and a camera in his other hand. Looking pissed because he had places to go, things to do, problems to solve.

“Don’t listen to him. Stay here. It’s better this way.”

That voice is more familiar. It’s comforting. Like the first, I know the owner isn’t actually there, but can picture him, too. Lying there with the covers pulled over his head, eyes closed, phone on his chest, listening to the British woman and ignoring the ticking of an internal clock as it wasted away. Seconds, minutes, hours, they didn’t matter to him, and he told me it shouldn’t matter to me, either.

I know them both very well. After all, they were me. The sleepy one was the one I listened to the most, though. No matter how much the angry, anxious one yelled – and he could yell plenty, something I envied about him – I could turn his volume down to nothing, listen to the tired one, and just stay here. I might feel bad about it later, and it might make the other one angrier later, but it doesn’t matter. I know if I stay here long enough, soon I can stay forever, and then it’ll all be darkness and soothing voices. No more shouting. No more fighting. No more pain.

“I said. Get. The. Fuck. Up.”

My eyes shoot open, and something is different. I can tell it’s been a while since they last had anything to say; my sense of time is broken, but not completely gone. But that’s not the problem. Time skips like that at the norm these days.

The problem is that he’s straddling me, his face inches from mine, teeth – the few he has left, anyway – bared at me, ash from his cigarette dropping onto my forehead. Somehow that detail, feeling the little flakes drift down from the glowing red eye of his cigarette and tickle their way across my forehead, my check, into the crease of my neck and give me the shivers like the thought of a bug crawling across me, is what convinces me this is real. Somehow, some way, he’s real, and he’s tired of putting up with my shit.

The camera and tablet aren’t with him; I imagine they’re still sitting by the doorway, carefully laid aside so they wouldn’t be damaged. He – we – always cared more for our things than ourselves. But everything else is the same; the Coyotes hoodie, the split left knee of his jeans, the jingling of his keys against the lighter and aspirator in his pocket, the dangling tail of the My Little Pony lanyard hanging loose and flopping as his lays hands on my shoulders and shakes me.

My head slams into the headboard, creating a white flash across my vision. When it clears, he’s still there, lips curled and eyes slitted in the same expression I’d seen in the mirror a hundred times before I took nails to flesh and clawed out a chunk of my own arm or my back.

“Go ‘way. Lemme ‘alone.” That was Sleepy. I don’t look. I’m afraid to look. It’s bad enough seeing one version of myself looking ready to kill me; I don’t want to confirm the physical reality of a third. Angry doesn’t have those problems. His head snaps to the left, he lets go of one of my shoulders, and a moment later I hear what sounds like a thundercrack and a mewl of pain. Blood begins to trickle from the side of my mouth, and Angry’s, and why not? What happens to one of us happens to all of us.

“You shut the fuck up. Christ. I’m trying to save us, here.”

Despite the rage and his actions, there’s a note of sincerity in his voice, curious but harsh care that somehow makes it worse. His attention comes back to me, locking eyes. His left hand rummages in his pocket for a moment and comes up full of pills. I know them well. Antipsychotics, antidepressants, antihistamines, steroids, cough suppressants. The things that keep me – us – alive and well. At least as well as we get, anyway.

His face doesn’t change from the bizarre mixture of care and hate as he hooks the index finger of his left hand into my mouth and forces it open. I try to talk, to yell at him to stop, but nothing comes out. He shoves the pills into my mouth, then clamps his hand over my lips and pinches my nose shut with the other hand. I don’t have a choice; I swallow.

“Good. Now get up. And don’t make me do it again.”

I blink, and he’s gone. For now. I glance down at the bed, and see three dents in it; one to either side of me, circular. Knees. To my side, a larger oblong one. The shape of a body.

That’s it. That’s enough. For today. The taste of the pills – the steroids, especially – is still on my tongue, stinging and rancid, and there wasn’t anything that would get rid of it except for chugging a soda and taking a hard drag on my vape box. The taste was shit, but it worked great as a motivator… once I had it in my mouth, anyway.

Time to get up. No more sleeping in.

KA Spiral no signature


A Terrible Thunder

It was asleep. For how long, I don’t know. Maybe a year, maybe a decade, maybe a millennium. It didn’t matter; what mattered was that it was awake, now.

Bitter irony had trapped it underneath the playground of a Catholic school. The children of its enemies would dance and laugh and scream and bleed above it, a slow trickle of their blood and tears and laughter and, most delicious of all, the little blasphemies they would utter when the nuns weren’t looking, seeping through the earth to its dozing ears, nose and tongue.

The storm came, as they are prone to do, unannounced. A bass rumble, a few seconds of nothing, as though the night was holding its breath to see what came next. Then a flicker of light. Then another rumble, louder, and a brighter flash. As the rain went from a quick drizzle to a torrential downpour that turned what the children used as a baseball field into a quagmire, those rumbles escalated to deafening cannon fire. The flashes of lightning on the horizon drew closer and brighter, until each one was turning the world white and imposing a negative exposure on the world.

It ended almost as suddenly as it began, with a final bolt that struck the metal pole the children used for tetherball. Electricity arced from the pole as it raced into the ground and burrowed beneath, and the sound ruptured the eardrums of small wildlife foolish enough to remain in attendance for the awakening.

The rain stopped. No more lights or sounds came from the heavens. Beneath the earth, it opened one baleful eye, and began to laugh.



“I don’t know why you bother. It’s not like you’re going to manage anything useful.”

Her tone is mocking, the singsong of a child, though the voice itself is husky. It’s a voice I’d almost forgotten, one that might have been better off left in the mental graveyard. But I’d dug her up, because there was something else in there with her.

You dug me up? I don’t think so, Gumby.”

God, I hated that name. It’s what she used to call me. A million years ago. That annoyed me more than her rifling through my mind to spit my own metaphors back at me.

“I dug myself out, thank you very much. Once you finally stopped piling more pills on top of the grave you threw me in.”

My eyes drift to the corner of the desk, to the row of orange bottles with their child-safe tops and the dozens of capsules, tablets and pills inside.

Haldol. Prozac. Xanax. Lithium. They sound like the names of Elder Gods, come to drag your soul and sanity away. They had certainly taken away my soul. Sanity was up for debate.

I hadn’t taken any of them in a week. After three years of them, I’d gotten lonely. I could do without her voice, but they also blocked the other voices, the ones I had to listen to, the ones who whispered their stories to me in the middle of the night and begged me to write them down in the morning.

The doctors claim it’s dangerous. Just going full-stop, cold turkey on a pile of psych meds that have been collecting in my bloodstream for years. They’re probably right. But I couldn’t keep going. If having her watching over my shoulder was the price, so be it.”

“So noble you are, Gumby. Don’t you think it’s a little pretentious?”

I felt a weight on my shoulder, both comforting and horrible. She was so strong, so there. I could feel her digging her nails in, and knew if I looked down I’d see the flesh of her fingers turning white with the pressure.

I didn’t look down. I didn’t want to be right. I acted like nothing had happened at all, that everything was fine, everything was normal. There was only one thing that would make her let go, make her shut up. Maybe not forever – maybe not even for more than five minutes – but at least for the moment.

I reached forward and hit the button on the back of my computer. Her fingers loosened just a bit… or maybe I only imagined it.

“Awww. You think you’re gonna do something? I doubt it.”

The last syllable was buried under the ominous but still comforting “bong” that any Apple user is familiar with. The word processor app popped up almost immediately, the window still open. The computer seemed to feel it had merely been put to sleep while I got a coffee, not powered down in a petulant fit nearly a year ago when I’d stared at the blinking cursor and empty white space for almost an hour while grinding my teeth and accomplishing nothing.

“Should have formatted it. Packed it up.”

Maybe she was right. But only one way to find out. I cracked my knuckles and settled my fingers on the keys, wincing at the electric stab of pain that worked through my wrists and forearms.

“I think you’re wrong,” I told her. Actually saying it, instead of just thinking it at her, seemed to be important. Sure, if anyone else was watching, they’d see an old gimp hunched over in a ratty chair and talking to himself… but no one was watching, unless you counted her.

“We’ll see, Gumby.”

I swallowed. The cursor blinked at me, patient and yet somehow snide.

The keys clicked. I wasn’t aware of them moving, but they seemed to know what to do. “Elle,” they spelled out. A name. I was always fond of starting things with names.

Click, click, click. “Might have been dead for years,” my fingers added. She had fallen silent. I was quiet, too. Didn’t even breathe. Writing is like casting a spell, and I was afraid to break it.

Might have been dead for years, my fingers said. That implied there was a “but” coming. Somewhere inside I felt something else waking up, some other part of me that had been buried in the same hole that she’d crawled out of, the same medically-induced coma all the other voices and drifted through for the last three years. That part of me was wonder, curiosity, the part that wants someone to tell it a story, that wants to know what happens next.

I gave in to that part. I let it listen, while my fingers did the talking.


Fiction – Bones

This… is a bone. Some people will know why it’s here, some people won’t. That’s okay. But think that you find an old, derelict building. Maybe it used to be a fortress, or a castle, or something important… but it’s fallen into disrepair and rot, neglected and used for target practice, the stones and things of value stolen or destroyed, the ground salted over and cursed by some Gypsy woman long in her grave.

And maybe in the middle of that, down a spiral staircase lined with a soot-coated silver rail and made of pitted glasslike steps that might have been ebony, or onyx, or basalt before time and vandalism wore away what made them special, there’s a small clearing. In what might have been the basement, nestled in a natural valley. Maybe there you see a well, or perhaps it’s a fountain. But no water runs from this place, nothing clean and cooling and refreshing. The ring of the well is lined with marble and silver, perhaps once arranged to resemble the gaping maw of the old draculs, but now the teeth are curved in and broken off, the silver is tarnished, and the scale motif of the well walls has become chipped, moss-eaten. The only thing that doesn’t appear to be centuries old and gone to seed are the chains, driving down into that black maw. Wrought of brass and iron, barbed with cruel spikes and locked into place with sturdy rungs of unidentifiable material that pulses a sickly green.

Maybe, because something demands you do it and, in the way of dreams, you can’t resist it, you lay hands on one of those chains and begin to pull. Somewhere below you, ancient gears begin to turn, and you hear the patter of stagnant water dripping for perhaps the first time in a thousand years. Your hands are pierced by the blades between the chain links, and your blood flows freely, staining the cobbles at your feet. Pain twists up from your palms to your shoulder blades like a horde of ants burrowing into your flesh from the open wound, and still you pull. From somewhere you hear the caw of a raven, and on the broken walls above you see dozens of corvid shapes taking roost, watching you with their black and somehow knowing eyes. Still you pull.

After a time, the bucket finally rises. You reach out and pull your find from within it. A single bone. Small, like a child’s; a shoulder blade with no spine or arm to support it. It’s covered in moss, scorched in places, chipped in others. You bring it to your face and inhale deeply. The scents of rot, age, death, dust and rancid water fill your lungs, but bring with it an image. A memory. The dusty smell… it’s not decay and powdered bone, it’s chalkdust.

In a classroom. Everyone midgets, barely two feet tall. No, not midgets. Children. Laughing. Singing. Scrawling their first disastrous attempts at their letters and giggling with glee each time the teacher pats them on the head or affixes a sticker to their papers. But one child stands away from the rest. This one isn’t giggling. This one is only watching, an expression of cold hatred gleaming in his green eyes. You come closer, and realize he can’t see you… but you can see inside him. See what’s wrong.

He’s been in that position for the better part of an hour. When asked to draw his letters, he did. All of them. Upper and lower. And the teacher looked at the paper, told him he must have cheated, and gave him a new paper to make him do it again. When he did it again, she gave him a harder paper; write words, and say and spell them. Which he did. Rather than a sticker, or a pat on the head, he was sent away from the others and told his parents will have to be talked to. He has been waiting since then.

When recess came, he wasn’t allowed to go outside. He has afflictions, they tell him, that mean he can’t run and play with the other children. His mother – or the woman he calls such, as the supposedly real thing left him long ago – is on the playground. Watching the other children. She has done it for years, and will continue to do it for years. She will hug them, pat them on the head, tell them how proud she is over each rock they turn up or each time they put the ball through the oversize hoop. But when she comes to the classroom, to examine the boy’s paper and talk about it with the teacher, she will only purse her lips and glare. Later she will take the boy to another place, where he will be poked and prodded and asked questions he doesn’t want to answer and pricked with needles and made to read and write things that will be thrown away and discarded as lies. He knows, because it’s happened before.

You’re pulled away, brought back to the courtyard and the well as the smell fades. But then you see the scorch mark, the place where someone or something must have burned the bone – or it’s owner – and you reach out to it, rubbing your finger against it for a moment, then placing the soot into your mouth. As the taste overcomes you, that flavor of death and decay burning into the roof of your mouth, you go away again.

You’re in a room; austere, with little to recommend it in the way of furniture except for a lamp and a crib. The boy is there, asleep in the crib though it’s much too small for him. Curled into the corner of it as best he can, thumb in his mouth, tear tracks on his dirty face and a bandaid with gaily dancing cartoon characters over a seeping needle mark on his forearm. Lying next to him is a stuffed animal, big and blue and strange-looking. Another figure enters the room. Smiles coldly. And pushes the uncovered lamp into the crib, resting the hot bulb against the faux blue fur. Nothing can be seen of this figure, only that it is tall, vaguely female, and wearing a nasty smile as it surveys its work. As the first tendrils of smoke come from the stuffed toy, it walks away.

You feel the heat baking your skin, cooking the tears that are yours as much as the boy’s. Feel your lungs start to close up as the cloud of burning plastic and polyester invades your nostrils and works its way down your throat.

Again you come back to the courtyard, and see one last thing that makes this bone different from the shoulderblades of any other dead thing. A gouge, running down the back of it. Deep, jagged, not quite straight. You dig your fingertip into it – it’s deep enough for that, and nearly wide enough, and you’re again somewhere else.

A living room. Brown furniture. Shag carpet. Family scene. On one couch an older couple – the ones the boy calls mother and father. On the other, a teenage girl and a boy, barely out of diapers. Sitting at the corner of the table between them, the boy is there. The tear tracks are gone, the bandaid no longer in evidence… but blisters are on his cheeks, and the angry welt of the needle is still on his arm. He is rocking, staring at the television the others are watching but not really seeing it. The urge to urinate comes over him, and he goes to rise.

The table, you see, has a jagged corner. You know the boy did that, broke it off when he was younger by running into it. That corner points at the boy’s back like an accusing finger, dangerously near to the soft place at the base of his skull each time his head rocks backwards. When he sat down, perhaps it hadn’t been so close, but the kicking of those he calls his siblings pushed it closer, or perhaps his rocking scooted him back. Regardless, when he goes to stand, that broken-off bit of old wood and plastic finds flesh… and bites.

It digs into his shoulder, but his upward momentum won’t be stopped; his shirt splits alongside his flesh, unravelling and hanging in two ragged flaps like tattered wings. The boy begins to shriek as blood begins to soak into the atrocious carpet. Time skips. The mother is behind him, cursing at the boy for being clumsy, for having an accident. The father is before him, laughing at the warm, wet spot that has formed on the boy’s jeans. More pain. Another shriek as the wings that had once been an unmarked spot of flesh are yanked back together and taped down. Liquid, burning and sizzling at the flesh, feeling like teeth chewing at the place where the skin ends and the pain begins as iodine and bactine are applied. More tape. Finally he is given a pill – the pink and white ones that make him tired, because that’s all they know to do with him – and sent back to the still-scorched crib.

He curls up – biting down further cries when the movement tugs at the tape they’ve given him instead of the stitches and real medicine he probably requires – and puts his thumb in his mouth. He pulls the blue thing – the face now mostly gone, a knot of melted plastic that reeks of it’s own destruction – closer to him. And sleeps.

You come back at last to the courtyard, and set the bone down. Part of you wants to toss it back into the well, but you know that’s not right; you bled to get this, your shoulders are still quaking with the effort of pulling the chains, and you feel a curious sense of gratitude as you lay it on the ground before the well, turning to walk away.

You found what you came for. The memory. The bone belongs to someone else.

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Flash Fiction: Cold

I hear my daughter, calling me to her room. She says she’s cold.

She died in the fire three years ago.

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Concordat of Lashan: Old Dead Things

Having posted so much Lashan related stuff in the last few days, I felt like resharing one of my short stories. It doesn’t directly deal with them – though the upir in the story are definitely vampires or a sort – but “Old Dead Things” occurs in the same universe as the Concordat, and Gregory Perron will be showing up again on this site soon, so figured it would serve as a nice introduction. (You know, whenever I finally finish with “Riptide,” which will be soon, I swear.) Enjoy!


“Bah! You come here, looking for Soldano? You not find him here, cop.”

The old man chuffed laughter alongside a cloud of pungent tobacco smoke, shaking his head and flapping his hand at me. At the table before him was a checkerboard, a game half-finished, though no other player was in evidence. Red was winning.

I didn’t have much interest in the game. It was none of my business. Dmitri Szgany, and what he might know about Soldano, that certainly was. I rolled my shoulders, letting the door slip shut behind me as I walked towards the splintered table he’d set his game board on. His rheumy brown eyes tracked me with only vague interest, peering through the cloud of smog his pipe was putting out.

“Looks like you’re losing, old man. What makes you think I’m a cop?”

The question wasn’t actually of interest to me, but I hoped it’d get him talking. Besides, he wasn’t entirely wrong. I was a cop. Until three weeks ago, anyway.

He laughed again, gesturing at the fire-sale salvaged chair across from him. “Am I? Strategy, friend, strategy. Hitler thought the motherland was losing, too, until he roll in with his tanks in middle of winter! Hah!” This time, the laugh turned into a wracking cough, prompting Szgany to hawk an unpleasantly crimson wad into a wastebasket to his left. “But you. You look like cop. Smell like cop. Besides, only cops ask questions about Soldano.”

He picked up a black marker and hopped it nimbly over one of the red, seemingly unaware that he had lined up four pieces that could be taken. Smirking to myself, I picked up a piece and made my own move, taking all the exposed chips.

“Fair enough. Doesn’t change the question. Where is he?”

The old man stared down at the board for a moment. He leaned back in his chair, taking another long drag on his pipe. I felt his eyes crawling over me, studying me, assessing me. Maybe he was just taking his time contemplating his next move – not that he really had many options given his previous blunder – but I thought he was actually debating on what to tell.

“You know, Soldano, he is not a man. He is monster. You know the things he has done?”

His voice, previously strong and reasonably friendly – if a bit gruff – quavered a bit. For a moment I saw my mother in him, her shrewish, fearful voice always warning of the things that could happen if Sascha and I weren’t in before dark, or quizzing us on every planned activity, searching for the dangers inherent to it.

Taking a deep breath and pushing the uncomfortable comparison away, I shrugged at him, turning my gaze to the board. “I know some. That’s why I’m looking for him.”

He nodded, making the movement with a slow and exaggerated style. “Hmmph. You not know half of what I know, if you looking for him. Still, must know more than the other cops. They don’t even bother, just laugh and walk away. Maybe he has friends in the high places, you know?”

He shrugged, picking up a piece that I hadn’t considered, in the far corner, and inched it forward a single square. His cryptic smile resurfaced, revealing the few teeth left in his head. The smile wasn’t entirely welcoming; something about it seemed predatory, sharklike. He was up to something, and I didn’t know if it had to do with the game or my questions about Soldano.

I continued studying the board, looking for his angle. There was an easy move that’d net me another two marks, but I suspected it was what he wanted me to do. I was more interested in where he was going with the piece in the corner, seemingly alone and unable to make an effective attack.

“Maybe,” I grunted at him.

“Pah. No maybe. When cops come here, and they hear that name, they put their little books away, they don’t ask any more questions. Sometimes, they look like they feel bad. Sometimes they pat you on the shoulder, look like they want to say something, but they don’t. They leave. Others, they smile like the people on the television, they say ‘Don’t worry, all be okay,’ then they leave too. Very quick. They don’t want to be in Little Odessa anymore than the rest of us. But they get to leave. We, we stay. They only visit, write their little notes, and leave. Soldano is just a boogeyman, nothing real to them. He weed out the garbage, they think.”

Nodding alongside his rant – though, he was right; all too often crimes, especially those they could trace to the mafiya, were ignored in Little Odessa. Easier. Simpler. – I took my move, claiming the pieces he’d left undefended. I couldn’t see any benefit to his previous move, didn’t see a trap coming, and just took it.

“They call Soldano boogeyman. Pah! I say, Stalin, he boogeyman. I call idiot Putin, he boogeyman. That Slender Man they talk about on the news, make those little girls kill, he boogeyman. You know difference, cop? Why Soldano not boogeyman? Boogeyman, he not real. He can’t hurt you. He story you tell children of why you left old country, of why you not go home, of why you be inside when it gets dark out and mama has supper ready. Soldano… he real.”

That queer echo of my mother again. She had said similar things, especially as her time wound down.

“So the cops, they come, and they write their papers, and now they think he gone, and they happy. Not because place is safer, now, but because there is less times we call them for no reason. Less paper to push. More time to drink their coffee and smoke their cigarettes and laugh at old Dmitri for still running this shop when everyone know there are no customers. They say ‘he maybe kill some people.’ Some? Pah!”

He jabbed his index finger into the table repeatedly, dredging up splinters with each syllable.

“Two hundred bodies we say are his. And that before he become real monster.”

He paused, catching his breath before taking another hit off his pipe. He glanced upward, over my shoulder, started to smile and then thought better of it. I heard the bell above the door clang twice, in rapid succession; by the time I’d glanced back to see who had come in, the door was already shut again and a figure was scurrying away. The instincts I’d fostered over my years with the force wanted me to give chase, but somehow I doubted one old lady in a babushka was of real interest. More likely she’d come for cigarettes or sugar, had seen a stranger, and decided against it. When I looked back at him, Dmitri was shaking his head.

“There, you see? You smell like cop. Even old Malvina knows it. You scare her off, no make sale. You owe me ten dollars American now, cop.” He laughed again, this time with actual humor in it, but waved it away when I reached to offer up my wallet.

“Always so serious, you people. I joking. Dmitri will get by, with or without your ten dollars. He always does.”

He settled one spidery hand over another piece, hopping one of my markers. I wasn’t worried. I’d left it there for him to take, setting up another blitz. Before I could make my countermove, he put his hand over mine. The feel of him was unpleasant, too warm, the skin papery and fragile next to mine.

“You not looking for Soldano as cop. You looking because he hurt you. Took something away. This, I understand.”

I jerked my head upward, glaring at him, wondering what sort of game he was playing. Did he know who I was, why I was really here? Through slitted eyes I watched him pull his own wallet from his pocket, struggling to get the fat and battered leather square free of his jeans. Dropping it open, his fingers rummaged for a moment before coming up with a small piece of celluloid that he brought reverently to his lips before crossing himself and turning it over.

“He hurt me once, too, cop. He hurt me because I tell what I know, what I see. He say ‘You ever do this again, Dmitri, I come back, make sure you never talk.’ Dmitri doesn’t care. He look at you, and he see someone who like him when he was young and strong and sure. He sees the fight not out of you yet. ‘Maybe’, I think, ‘he can do what you could not, eh?’”

He gestured to the picture again, begging me to look at it. It was old, creased and beaten from decades of being carried around in that ridiculous wallet, but it still haunted me. A little girl, with thick dark curls and wide eyes of emerald. A bright smile that showed the gleam of metal from fresh braces. One chubby hand extended as though to grab for something beyond the camera’s reach.

“My Irina. Only six. She was my world. Soldono thinks, he takes my world, he stops me. He is wrong; he only delay.”

I laid one finger on the photo, tracing the lines of the face. My eyes clenched, and I swallowed hard, trying to fight the sting of tears. She looked a great deal like Sascha had at that age.

“So I tell you where Soldano is. I tell you what Soldano is. You know why, cop?”

I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak.

“Because you look like type who might stop him. You might find him, might kill him, and then no one else come home and find their vnuchka nailed to the wall, eh? Dmitri has been waiting for one like you for a long time. Ever since Irina died. I wasn’t strong enough to do what I should have. Cops not care enough. But you… you care. You strong. You angry, and that make the difference.”

Dmitri wasn’t wrong. I’d given up my wife and son. My career. All that mattered to me was finding the son of a bitch and putting a bullet in his heart. It wouldn’t bring Sascha back, or get rid of the hole in my own heart. But it was right. It needed to be done. I nodded.

“See? Dmitri knows people. Is why shop is still open. So he tell you. If you want Soldano, you want the Virgin’s Grave. You know the place, old Shayden farm?”

Again I nodded. The place was on most of the patrol routes, since there was always somebody poking around, looking for ghosts or buried treasure. According to the stories, the Virgin’s Grave had been erected by the patriarch of the Shayden clan, memorializing his daughter. She’d been murdered by rum runners when dear old dad decided to hide their part of the take and keep it for himself. No one had ever found the money, or reliably seen the girl’s ghost, but it didn’t stop the lookie-loos.

Da. Virgin’s Grave, that’s where he goes. Late at night, with his new friends, ones who make him a real monster.”

I cocked my head, leaning back in the chair.

“You keep saying that. What is that even supposed to mean?”

Dmitri glanced downward at the photo of his daughter or granddaughter, not blinking or breathing for a long period. Sighing, he glanced up at me.

“You think I am crazy. No matter. I tell you. Maybe it help, maybe you laugh, maybe not matter either way. But when you go, if you really want him killed, you bring big weapons. Fire. Maybe chainsaw, even, for after. Because he not human. Two hundred he kill, and that was when he was a man. A hateful, evil, despicable man, but man just the same. But then he make friends, friends who are not men, who come only at night and never breathe or eat or drink, who stink like old borscht no matter how much cologne they wear. Then Soldano, he disappear for a few days. When he come back, he not eating or breathing or drinking or sitting in sunlight, either. And he smell like old dead thing, too.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. Superstition had never been my strong point. I already considered Soldano to be a monster – didn’t even have to factor in what he did to my sister to reach that conclusion; his rap sheet was full of atrocities far more severe than his associates in the Mafiya, and he was known to go to extreme lengths to intimidate when a simple baseball bat and the “nice place you got here” speech would suffice – but the idea that he could be a literal monster seemed a little farfetched.

Dmitri nodded, as though he could hear my line of thinking.

“Yes, I can see you think me an old fool. Is fine. Dmitri knows, tales of upir and rusalki are for the children and the hack writers, da? But some things from the old country, they not die out. They not just boogeymen to scare the children, they not just stories the grandmothers tell of when they were girls. You don’t believe, is fine. But I still see you mean to kill him, cop. And I want you to. So, even if it just is humoring this old man, you take fire, you take blades. You make sure.”

He tipped me a wink through the smoke of his pipe, and I could no longer tell if he was kidding or not.

“Besides. I am guessing that you are not wanting your comrades to find a body, da? Is good. Make sure you burn him. Salt the earth. Scatter the ashes. Will do for him whether he man or monster, and keep you safe besides, eh?”

Still not sure how much of his commentary was to be believed – he seemed trustworthy enough with his story of a lost child and the way the force treated his people, and the part of me that wanted Soldano dead sensed a kindred spirit in him, but when he started babbling about ghosts of the old country his credibility took a severe hit – I just nodded. Best play along. Whether or not his information was any good remained to be seen, but it was a place to start.

He smiled at me, then flapped his hand. “Good. Then you go, cop. Get out, before you scare away any more business, eh?” He chuffed another laugh that turned into coughing. By the time the fit had passed, he was red-faced and wheezing. I reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, but he waved me away again.

“Go, go. I will be fine. As fine as I ever get, you know.” He hawked and spat another wad of phlegm and blood into his wastebasket. “Now get.”

I stood up and backed away, still eyeing him with concern. He seemed to have already forgotten me, staring down at the checkerboard and not glancing back up at me even as the small bell rang once more and I slipped out.

* * *

Getting to the Virgin’s Grave was no problem at all. Had to take a few back roads – one of which was so overgrown and disused I was half worried that my Caprice would get bogged down and I’d have to hoof it – to keep out of sight and avoid the alcohol checkpoints, but it wasn’t particularly stressful.

What was bothering me more was what was in the trunk. I didn’t want to think I’d given the old man more credence than he deserved, but in addition to the .38 that was always strapped under my shoulder, I’d brought a Mossberg, a can of gasoline, and the axe that had once hung in my garage, patient and quiet until winter rolled around and Michelle and Pete decided it was time to hunt down the Christmas tree we’d call our own.

There was no trace of good memories left on that old axe, now. As I’d hefted it, testing the weight and the swing – aiming downward rather than sideways as I would have on those long gone December days – it seemed to thrum with deadly purpose. No longer a tool, it had become a weapon. The feeling intensified when I took it to the grindstone, honing the edge until it was sharp enough to split hairs.

I tried not to think about the idea that, if things went the way I wanted, I’d be using it to dismember someone. Or something, if Dmitri was to be believed. Which of course he wasn’t. It was easy to tell myself that while I was in my garage with all the fluorescents turned on, even easier as I got into my car with the warm August sun beaming down on me. But as the night crept in and crawled over me on that drive, as my headlights became a necessity, as they showed less and less of the road in front of me, it started to feel a lot more plausible.

Sascha hadn’t just been killed, after all. She’d been torn apart. No tool marks visible. The marks on her neck had been too wide, too deep, for a man’s hands, even a big one. The coroner claimed it was probably due to decomp, or an overabundance of humidity, which I’d mostly accepted. As much as I could accept anything about her death, anyway. But now, coming up the road to the supposedly haunted farm in the dark of night, headlights off so I didn’t spook Soldano or his friends if they really were here, a trunk loaded with weapons that I was now certain I really meant to use, hell or high water, it was all too easy to believe in the fairy tales and ghost stories that my mother had told us so often. Upir and rusalki and Baba Yaga stalking the night, stealing children.

I guessed that made me the noble woodcutter or the valiant knight, but I sure didn’t feel like it. I felt like a criminal, barely better than Soldano or those he ran with. But I’d accepted that. I’d lost almost everything else when he’d killed her; why not the last scrap of my own self-image and integrity?

I parked roughly a mile away from the site proper. Made sure I was in good tree cover, wedged between a pair of pines that had gotten particularly adventurous and close to the road. I could see the place: the road spilled into a large circle of brightly-colored pebbles and gravel, the trees trimmed back to respect that circle. At the north edge, farthest from the road, there was a ten foot tall, triangular monument. I’d taken pictures there enough times – local tourist attractions had been a quick and easy way to entertain Pete when he still liked me enough to want me to entertain him – to know the front was sculpted to look like the murdered girl kneeling in prayer, and the inscription beneath, worn almost to nothing from grave-rubbings and wondering fingers touching it, read “Aliana Shayden, Beloved Daughter, Devoted Child of God. Taken too soon for the folly of her father.”

To either side of the stone were remembrance torches. Members of the Shayden clan – who now lived upstate, having mostly abandoned the farm and its bad memories a generation ago – paid to make sure the grounds were swept and the torches kept fed, burning all through the night. Their flames cast conflicting patterns of shadow across the color spray of the clearing, but I was glad for them tonight. From their light, I could see figures moving about in front of the stone. Looked like three, but I couldn’t be sure at this distance. Might be nothing at all, for that matter. For a moment I cursed not having brought a set of binoculars – Pete had left them last time he’d been at the house, and even though they were simple little things, designed to amuse a six year old who thought he wanted to be a bird-watcher when he grew up, they would have been enough to get a count, at least – but knew it couldn’t be helped, now.

I turned away from the stone, going to the trunk of the car. I pulled out the Mossberg, cracking it as quietly as I could to make sure. The dull brass of the shell casings gleamed at me under the starlight. Ten gauge buckshot. Man or monster, it was enough to put an almighty big hole in somebody, and the Shayden farm had the advantage of being pretty far away from any neighbors. Even the checkpoints or patrols trying to keep randy teenagers away would probably only think of firecrackers if they heard it at all.

I reassembled the shotgun, and held it under my shoulder while I pulled out the axe. As soon as I gripped it, I felt that sense of deadliness creep over me again, the feeling that I was holding something with one single purpose that was about to be realized. I hadn’t felt that with the gun, not in the dozens of times I’d fired it on the range or the small handful of episodes where I’d drawn it while on duty, and not even tonight as I was coming to a holy place with murder in my heart. But the axe awakened that feeling in me, alongside a feeling of rightness. What I was going to do with it was necessary. It was good. It was what I – and it – had been made to do.

I slid the ash handle of the axe through the loop of my service belt, the one that used to carry my flashlight. The cold steel of the blade’s head rested against my side, sending a harmonic pulse of that sense of right through my body.

I checked to make sure the .38 was seated in my shoulder-rig, and that it was loaded. Hollow points, swiped from the testing range in exchange for a favor from Briggs.

Apparently I had been taking the old man seriously, at least subconsciously.

Nodding to myself, I took a deep breath and started towards the clearing. I kept to the tree cover, circling so as to come up on the west side of the monolith. My boots didn’t make a sound, even when they passed over small bits of discarded twig or the odd dead leaf. Maybe, I thought, only half-serious, the old man was right and there are monsters out there. But maybe there’s something else out there, looking out for you.

There was a perverse sense of comfort in the idea, no matter how crazy or false it might be. That comfort led, naturally enough, to thoughts of my mother and what she always suggested when we were scared – generally of her own stories – or upset or worried.

Prayer was always the answer, to her. Some take solace in rationality. Others – myself included – in law and order. She found it through God.

Thinking of it brought a strange compulsion over me. The idea that I would do such a thing while on such an errand seemed almost blasphemous, an oxymoronic joke. But I wanted to, just the same. I stopped my advance – now only a quarter mile away, and I could see the figures clear enough to tell that there were three of them, and that their attention seemed squarely focused on the stone marker before them – and slid back behind the trees.

Going kneebound and setting the Mossberg down, I clasped my hands together, but somehow it didn’t feel right. They felt empty, somehow unworthy.

I ran one finger over the handle of the axe, and that felt right. I pulled it free from the loop, tightening my grip with both hands and putting the head to the ground. I searched for the old words, things that I had once known by heart but that had lain forgotten for the better part of twenty years, when I first came to believe that God must be dead, that there is only man to right the wrongs. After a time, I found them.

The Lord’s Prayer, first. Then Psalm 23. Then I added “May Perun grant me strength,” though I wasn’t certain why; it was just something that used to be said in my house, probably a holdover from grandma, who had been big on the old religions and less interested in, as she put it, “the puling sheep-god.” But it still felt right.

I rose, socking the axe back into my belt; right or not, I preferred something with range, at least at first. There were three of them and only one of me, and if Soldano was there, I wanted to take my time with him which meant putting his companions out fast.

I slid closer still, and my breath caught in my throat. Of the three, I recognized two of them. One was short, missing a pair of fingers on his left hand. His white shirt was open, and on the flabby flesh beneath I could see what looked like dozens of tattoos. Almost certainly Mafiya, though either not a major player or not local, since I couldn’t place him. The second was of average height, with ragged and greasy black hair that was starting to show streaks of white in his ponytail. One hand was almost completely black, covered in ink. I wasn’t close enough to see it yet, but knew there was a six-pointed star underneath his left eye, and that his lower lip would be deeply scarred. Grigori Valen, formerly one of the middle men in the Liddle Odessa operation. He hadn’t been seen in months; most of us had assumed he’d gone too far with someone else’s girl and had paid the price, but here he was.

Standing between them, looking immaculate in a white suit, his blonde hair slicked into perfect spikes, not a mark visible on him – all his tattoos were in places you couldn’t see without stripping him, he was almost obsessively vain about that – and a head taller than either of his companions was Anatoly Soldano. The monster I’d come to kill.

They were talking, though I couldn’t tell if they were speaking to each other or the stone, the distance and the low pitch of their voice were against me. I could catch enough of the rhythm to know it was in Russian, though. I crept a step closer, and the one I didn’t recognize spun suddenly, facing me directly.

He was looking looking straight at me, even though with my all black clothes, the lack of light beyond the torches – which only served to light the stone and a small bit of the clearing – and the distance, I should have been all but invisible to him. I had a moment to think that perhaps he’d heard something else, or thought he had, that he was looking because he was paranoid and not because there was something to look at.

That illusion was shattered when he lifted his right hand, pointed directly at me, and shrieked. “Politseyskiy!”

Well, there goes the ballgame. Soldono and Valen turned as well. I butted the stock of the shotgun to my shoulder, knowing the spread would be too wide for any effective damage at this range, but hoping that a couple of shots would discourage them, when everything I thought I knew fell down.

Their eyes were the first thing I noticed. They blinked and went from normal – cold and reptilian in nature, but still human – to shining red lanterns with cat-like pupils. Their jaws dropped down, all three of them shrieking, and I noticed they opened impossibly wide. All three of them seemed to have their jawbones resting just above their stomachs, filled with too many razor sharp teeth and each with a dangling, serpentine tongue

The sound was inhuman. Nails on a chalkboard doesn’t even begin to describe it. Had there been anything glass nearby, I’m sure it would have shattered.

The one who’d noticed me dropped to all fours and charged. He moved like a wolf, or a wild dog, and far quicker than anyone should have a right to. He’d closed the distance between us in less than three seconds. I ran on instinct, my hands and body remembering their training even though my brain didn’t. The Mossberg tracked him, the hammer fell, and the thing went flipping head-over-ass backwards, most of the face and upper torso missing.

There was no blood. He didn’t make a sound. He started to get up, slowly but not seeming too impaired. Again working without my higher cognitive functions, my hands worked the action and slid another shell into the chamber, letting him have it in the chest this time. He flew back another five steps and sat down heavily, the ruins of his face twisting into a sneer.

The other two were coming. They didn’t move as fast as the first one, but they were still fast enough; my hands tried to do their trick again, but somehow screwed it up and jammed the shotgun. There wasn’t time to think, wasn’t time to unclasp the revolver. I dropped the shotgun and yanked the axe out and up, getting there just in time; Valen’s gaping maw was inches from me as the axe head lodged against the side of his throat, a solid impact that turned my hands numb. Without thinking, I twisted, using the weight of the blunt end to throw him down.

Soldano leapt towards me, and if I’d been any slower dealing with his friend, he might have got me. As it was, his outstretched hands – which were claws, I saw as they streaked past me – skirted only inches from the side of my head, in precisely the spot I’d been before spinning Valen to the ground.

I kept my momentum, turning and twisting the axe, catching Soldano in the gut and shoving him backward. Valen bounced back up and jumped on my back, latching on with that impossible mouth. I could feel the teeth pushing through my shirt, hitting flesh and boring in. The pain was exquisite, like nothing I’d ever felt in my life. Even the week where I had three root canals was practically paradise compared to this, and that was before the injuries began to burn, like someone had poured acid on them.

“Fucking Christ!”

At my exclamation, something happened. I don’t know what. The axe head – still half-buried in Soldano’s gut – seemed to pulse for a moment, a throb of bluish purple light that left a hazy corona burned into my retinas. Soldano seemed to fly backwards, freeing himself from the weapon and hunkering down, hissing at me. Valen let go, springing back as well. The third, who looked like he was about ready to get back up, thumped on his ass again, his distended face dropping into a mask of terror, eyes wide.

Something came over me then. I wasn’t fighting three monsters for my life or to avenge my sister. I was just doing my job, just cleaning up the trash, just like I’d done hundreds of times when I was still a cop. I jerked the axe up, muscles moving with a fluidity I hadn’t known they possessed, and almost casually flicked it sideways. Valen’s head hit the ground a moment later, still trying to scream.

Soldano backed away a little further, his eyes widening and starting to show the faintest tinges of ice blue at the edges. His jaw retracted a bit. Whether it was fear or caution, whatever he had become was slinking out of him, the human he had been resurfacing.

I started to advance. The pain didn’t matter anymore. The doubt was unimportant. What mattered is that there were two left, and they needed to be put down. Soldano backed up a step for each one that I took forward, and that was fine by me. As we passed his unknown friend, my hands did their own magic, dropping the blade down at an angle and tearing through the thing’s ribcage, splitting that horrid mouth in two, exposing organs that were little more than desiccated specimens that belonged in a lab, not in the chest of a walking, talking person. Or whatever he was.

Soldano hissed again as I split his friend in half, but there didn’t seem to be much bite to add to the bark; he was still backing up, though I could see he was almost out of room. A few more steps and he’d be butted against the monument, with nowhere else to go.

“How’s it feel, you son of a bitch? You like it? Being scared? Is it as much fun, now that you’re the one on the chopping block?”

A part of me was enjoying this too much. The feeling of power, the adrenaline rush, the sheer sadistic glee that I had the bastard exactly where I wanted him.

The inevitable happened; his back hit the monument, and he froze, jerking his head to either side, his nostrils flaring. Nowhere to run to; the sides extended over to the torches, and to get past those, he’d have to go through me. I smiled at him, showing all my teeth. They might not have been as impressive as his, but from the look of him, they were nearly as intimidating.

“Nighty-night, mudak.”

I swung, shearing through his jaw and into the neck behind it. My hands thrummed as the axe bit into the monument and lodged there, popping blisters I hadn’t realized I’d had. His head – the top half of it, anyway, if one took that mouth into consideration – stayed there, resting on the axe. The rest of him slumped to the ground, melting into a noxious gas that – as Dmitri had said – stank like spoiled borscht.

His eyes rolled in the sockets, seeming to fixate on me one last time, marking me. Then his skull started to melt, sliding off the axe to join the rest of him in a viscous puddle before evaporating.

I took a step back, and glanced over my shoulder. The other two were dissipating as well, though the spots they had fallen had turned dead and gray. Whatever else they were, they were toxic as hell. I doubted anything would grow there again.

I reached up to pull the axe out of the stone, wincing at the damage I had done. The blade had landed squarely in the stone woman’s chest, biting deep. I mumbled something like an apology while I tried to work it out of the carving, but the strength and surety that had driven it through the monsters a minute ago was gone. My arms were rubber, and getting a grip with my bloody, pus-covered hands was almost impossible. I finally had to brace myself against the side of the stone, push with my legs and yank with both hands to get it free. Then I vomited.

I might be bloody, bitten, bruised and broken, covered in my own puke, but the job was done. I could take a certain amount of satisfaction in that… but not nearly as much as I thought I would have.

If things like Soldano and his pals were real… what else might be out there?

KA Spiral no signature


Riptide, Part 6

(Missed the story so far? It starts here!)


Mother was back. She’d announced her presence with a midnight beating. She’d crept up the stairs while Rachel slept, having felt safe that Mother wouldn’t return until morning. Somehow her friend hadn’t been aware of Mother’s return, either; Bertie gave no warning or attempt to defend her when she was jerked awake by the crack of the birch rod against her thigh.

Rachel was too surprised to scream, being yanked from a pleasant dream of floating in an endless ocean, free from concepts like pain and paranoia. She’d been just… drifting. Safe among the jellyfish and waves that meant her no harm. Her brain interpreted the first flare of pain as one of those jellyfish reaching out and stinging her with one ropy tentacle. When she blinked, the moon-face of Mother was in front of her instead of the gelid sac of sea life gone awry.

“Thought I’d forgotten about you, didn’t you? Thought Mother had just wandered off, leaving you to be free to do as you will, didn’t you, little whorelet?”

Her voice was thick and slurred, coming out of only one side of her mouth. Rachel could see that the whole left side of Mother’s face was sagging down, turning it into equal parts tragedy and comedy mask, while her left eye rolled in the socket, seemingly fixed on nothing at all.

Mother brought the switch down again, sending ripples through Rachel’s left arm before leaving it numb. Rachel saw a splash of blood spring up and droplets seem to hover in the air for a moment before raining down on the burlap sheets in a quick drum riff.

“Found your books, I did,” Mother said. She punctuated this with another swing but missed. The head of the switch bounced off the bed and rebounded; Rachel found herself wishing it would fly back and hit Mother in the face. Somewhere inside of her, a voice awakened, laughing at first.

You could always do it for her, it said after a moment. Rachel liked the idea. She pushed with her feet, forcing herself into a sitting position and tensing the muscles in her right arm – the left was still numb, good for nothing but dripping blood all around her – as she slit her eyes. Watching the tip of the switch the way a snake charmer might watch the eyes of a particularly aggressive cobra, she waited for her chance.

“Nothing but bad. Since you were born, I knew it.”

She swung again; Rachel twitched to her right but kept her arm still. The birch rod cracked against the wall only inches from her head. She wanted to lunge for it, but that internal voice had told her it wasn’t quite ready yet. Steady, it told her.

Mother pointed the switch at Rachel, as though she was lining up a pocket shot on a cue-ball, her good eye running down the twisted rod to lock with Rachel’s gaze. Rachel wanted to squirm under that mad glare but kept herself still. The moment was coming, she knew it.

“I tried to beat it out of you. Tried to guide you to the Lord. But you wouldn’t listen.”

Her voice was rising in volume and dropping in octave, until it was a bass rumble that Rachel felt certain must have been rocking the flimsy walls of her attic prison.

“The devil in you answers to only one law. And the good Lord told me if thine child offends thee,”

She began to raise the switch above her head. Rachel saw it in slow motion, tracing the arc with a clinical precision that she wouldn’t have believed herself capable of.

“Then you must strike her down!”

Now! the internal voice shrieked as Mother brought the switch down. The whistling trajectory was aimed right at her head, and Rachel had no doubt that if it connected she’d be unconscious or worse.

But it didn’t. Her hand shot up, without conscious thought, and wrapped around the rod an instant before it hit her forehead. Ther was a meaty thud instead of the sharp crack she had been expecting. Her arm reverberated with the impact, and her hand became nothing but a leaden glove leaking blood between the fingers, but she had hold of the weapon.

Mother seemed too shocked to respond. Rachel knew what to do. She yanked, pulling it free from Mother’s weakened grasp. With a casual flip, she turned the business end around, raising it over her own head as she stood up.

Towering above Mother, feet planted squarely on the bed and thankful for once that it was nothing more than a wooden slab with a thin cushion of burlap thrown over it, Rachel’s teeth shone forth in a feral grin.

“How’s this for evil, Mother?”

She swung, aiming for that rolling eye and whatever diseased brain lay behind it.

KA Spiral no signature


Riptide, Part 5

(Missed the start? It’s right here!)

Riptide.jpgMother was gone again. She did that sometimes. Tossed a box of jerky, a gallon jug of water, and a bible with certain passages bookmarked and covered in highlighter and with notes written in the margins.

She was to fast, eat only what was necessary, drink as little as possible, and brand those passages into her brain. Usually, they dealt with harlots and hellfire; Mother wasn’t a big believer in the New Testament. Leviticus was a favorite chapter, often used as a rationale for a beating or other punishment.

Rachel enjoyed those times. Not because of the studying, and certainly not for the extreme punishments that would be levied at her when Mother inevitably returned, but because they gave her a period of peace. She would ration out the jerky and water, not because Mother wanted her to, but because she was smart enough to know that she’d starve or dehydrate herself into a coma. The irony of dying of thirst when she was less than a quarter mile from the ocean and in the middle of a pine rainforest wasn’t lost on her.

She would ignore the Bible; she knew well enough what was in there and what lessons Mother wanted her to learn. Instead, she would draw, pulling up the floorboards in the corner where she’d managed to hide a few broken pencils and a battered art pad. They were relics of Celia’s, brought up to the window by a pulley system she’d rigged when she was younger. Before her sister started buying into Mother’s hysterics and shunned all contact with her.

The art pad’s first handful of pages were done with child’s crayon drawings, bright yellow suns and squiggly shapes that could only be described as people with a mother’s kindness and a toddler’s imagination. Rachel sometimes found herself wanting to cry when looking at them, because there were only two such people in the drawings; she was absent in all of them. Other times she was less touched by it. She was an outsider here and knew it.

Her own drawings were small, economical. Frequently four or five on a page, on both sides. She knew she had to make the artbook last. Even so, she was nearing the end. She wasn’t sure what she’d do when she hit that final page. Probably enter a final descent into madness. She’d asked Bertie to smuggle her in a fresh pad, but Bertie said it was something she couldn’t do. At least, not yet.

Her drawings had started simple, aping her sister’s, but with a natural talent the younger girl lacked. After a time, once she realized Mother was not going to give her the love she craved, they turned inward, self-portraits and fantastic creatures. Once Bertie had come, they were frequently sketches of the older girl, though some pages featured more disturbing imagery; Mother with her eyes gouged out, Celia drowning in the ocean, the birch rod leaning against a tree, blood dripping from the end, with a lifeless lump beside it.

Rachel knew drawings like that were exactly what Mother thought was inside her all the time, were the reason for the beatings and her captivity, but sometimes they bubbled up anyway, pouring out of her in a frenzied trance that left her panting and exhausted when they were finished.

Inevitably Mother would return, the sketch pad would go back under the floorboards, and Rachel would forget about it for a little while. It wasn’t safe when Mother was home, as she might pick any moment to come thundering up the stairs. Being caught with it would lead to punishments Rachel wasn’t able to imagine, the worst of which being the loss of the pad and pencils.

Today was different, though. Normally, she was alone when she drew. But today, Bertie was watching. She was hunkered down, staring as though hypnotized as Rachel’s fingers spilled out a series of lines and streaks that were resolving themselves into an image of Rachel standing above her Mother, the switch in one hand and the bible in the other; it was taking up the full page, one of the rare times she had done so. Though she didn’t know it, Rachel was smiling, her tongue tucked into the corner of her mouth.

Bertie spoke as Rachel put the final stroke.

“Maybe instead of drawing it,” she said, before pausing.

Rachel glanced up at her friend, raising her brows. When there seemed to be nothing more, she punched one fist into her thigh.

“What?” she demanded.

Bertie smiled, tapping her chin with one lacquered nail.

“Well. Maybe you should just do it, instead.”

The idea hung in the air for a full minute as Rachel considered the idea, both shock and simmering rage fighting for command of her body.

“Maybe I should,” she whispered after that moment. “Maybe I should.”

(The story continues here!)

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Rotten Apple: Three Little Pigs


– 1 –

Officer Harris’ lips twisted upward, parting half an inch and revealing spittle-coated, gleaming teeth. Above that warped grin, his brown eyes danced, the left one flicking to the side repeatedly, giving it the impression of wobbling in the socket.

“You like that? That’ll teach you, stinkin’ up the place.” His voice was hoarse, sensual; his tone was one reserved for bedrooms adorned with velvet and candles. There might have been a more out-of-place spot to hear it than the dingy passthrough between the 8th Street tenement buildings, something odder to reflect the faint echo than dumpsters, dilapidated fire escapes and the detritus — human and otherwise — that gathered in such places, but it was unlikely.

He lunged forward and lashed out again with the nightstick, driving the battered bit of wood with it’s aluminum core into the ribcage of the bit of trash in front of him. The rotter groaned again, his rancid breath spilling over shattered teeth and split lips in a harsh exhalation. Harris’ grin widened, even as he fought his gag reflex.

Goddamn things stink worse than the bodies we fish out of the Hudson, he thought as he grabbed hold of the rot’s collar — the filthy remains of what had probably begun life as a nice white shirt with black buttons, perhaps scavenged from a boneyard or the trash pile of a jilted wife — and yanked him forward. “Yeah? Like it, deadboy?”

The rot had been fairly young when he turned, from the look of him. The eyes were wide and blue, the whites only lightly yellowed by death and the flesh around them free of wrinkles. The cheeks still had the scars of his last crop of adolescent acne, the mouth was still full and pouty — barring Harris’ handiwork, that had split his lips and broken most of his front teeth off at the gumline — more feminine or childish than not. Only the deep groove just above his right eye and the crater in the skull just beyond it — giving Harris a glimpse of the dead gray matter that still tried to pulse underneath — gave away what the little bastard really was. That and the smell; Harris had always prided himself on his sense of smell, and this little punk reeked of rotter to him; sweet and rancid at the same time, like raw pork left in a Coke can.

The thing tried to shake its head, producing several crackling noises from somewhere in its neck; apparently the head wound hadn’t been all that was done to the little shit before he turned cannibal. Harris tightened his grip on the thing’s shirt, bunching a wad of the once-expensive cloth into his fist and shook it again.

“Did I give you permission to move, deadboy?”

Harris dropped the nightstick and belted the thing across the mouth, prompting another splash of blood. Longtime practice of this particular motion had taught him to lean back and to the side to avoid the spray. When he saw the thing’s chest heave, as though it was about to do something really dumb — like try to scream — Harris drove his knee into its stomach, provoking a fit of retching and coughing.

Pulling his body back a half step, he glanced along the passthrough in each direction, making sure he remained unobserved. To the south he saw the tall, gangly shadow of Freeman, who seemed to notice he was being watched; he tipped his hat and nodded slightly to Harris before lighting a cigarette. Just a cop taking a smoke break.

Twenty feet in the other direction, watching the north entrance — not that there was much of a chance of being disturbed from that direction, given that it only led to the trash access for the apartment complex — was Stead, arms crossed over his meaty chest and watching Harris and their playmate with candid interest.

Nodding to himself, Harris turned his attention back to the rot in front of him.

“Yeah, don’t bother screaming. You’ll wake all the wee little babies and the daddies sleeping it off, and we wouldn’t want that.” He released his grip on the rot’s collar and patted the thing’s neck. Tenderly, almost consolingly, even though his flesh was crawling and the touch made him want to gag despite the thick black gloves he wore.

“Now. Know what you did wrong, yet?”

The rot glanced up, faint hope in its eyes. Harris loved that best of all: seeing them hear his soothing voice, maybe thinking they were going to get out of this with nothing more than a thrashing and some verbal abuse. Thinking that maybe, just maybe, it’s just some lifeists having a bit of sport. They never did, of course, Harris always saw to it even if Freeman or Stead backed off, but dangling the hope of escape in front of them, making them think it was real and yanking it away… that’s what made the game worth it.

The rot was still quiet, so Harris bent a little at the knees to bring himself into its line of sight, still stroking the thing’s neck with that heavy, comforting hand. “Come on. I know you can talk, heard you just fine up the street.”

It licked its lips — Harris had to repress a shudder, as he thought of what that must taste like, the tongue going over clotted blood that had been dead even before it leaked through the remains of the lips and teeth, picking up salt, maggots or worse as it trailed across — and tried for its voice. Sounding pained and out of breath, it still managed.

“Asked the wrong guy for change.” It cast its eyes downward, looking for all the world like a dog that knows it’s been caught in the trashcan.

Harris’ smile widened, as he tightened his grip on the thing’s neck. His thumb and forefinger dug into the bundle of nerves right below the ear, making the thing try to pull back involuntarily. After a moment, Harris loosened his hand again and raised a brow.

“What was that? Didn’t quite hear you, kiddo.” His voice had grown thicker still, his breath hitching with revulsion and excitement. If the rot bothered to cast its eyes downward, it would probably realize just how excited Harris was — felt like he was getting a pretty good pup-tent going down there — and how unlikely it was to get away, but Harris didn’t find it in himself to care.

The rot, apparently a quiz-kid when it was still alive, coughed up the answer Harris had been looking for.

“Asked you for change. Sir.” The eyes were still downcast, the shoulders slumped as much as they could be given the odd boneless feel of the thing’s neck and Harris’ grip. Harris found this somewhat disheartening. The breaking was what mattered, and this poor bastard was almost completely broken already.

Oh well. Let’s wrap it up.

Out loud he said: “That’s better. And you know what the penalty for that particular crime is?” Raising his free hand, he twirled his wrist and gave a quick, sharp whistle over his lower teeth. Stead and Freeman started trotting towards him, nightsticks at the ready.

The rotter, apparently seeing where this was going, stopped trying to hold his head up and let it fall forward to his chest. “No. Sir.”

Freeman caught this as he slid up next to Harris, his ebony skin and dark uniform making him hard to pick out in the shadows of the alley. Harris was only certain of the other man’s position when he chuckled, a deep rumble that seemed out of place coming from the tall and willowy officer by his side. “Learns quick, doesn’t he?” he quipped.

Stead had joined them, spitting a thick brown stream of tobacco into the rot’s face. “Mayhap. Sometimes you can teach ‘em. Like a dog, or a retard.”

Another chuckle from Freeman, as he limbered up his swinging arm and gave the rot a wallop in the kidneys. Harris found that his excitement was still to be found, jutting upward with a painful immediacy that his wife would have been gratified to witness if she had been there; seeing the rot’s face crumple under Freeman’s blow was better treatment than the tricks the gals in Tijuana had taught him in the summer of ’58.

He stepped back, intending to give Stead some room to land a few blows of his own. He always made sure the job was done, and he always picked the marks, but the middle was his two compadres, every time. Partly because he liked to watch, but mostly so they couldn’t finger him and claim it was all his doing; too many of the bastards in IA were digging into rot violence lately. Harris wasn’t overly concerned — friends in high places were useful to cultivate, and Harris had held to that credo through the entirety of his twenty years with the NYPD — but it never hurt to cover your ass, just in case.

Stead’s first strike bounced off the rot’s cheek, shattering the bone and sending his eye slumping down the ruins of his face. Freeman was rearing back for another swing when another voice came to them.

“NYPD! Stop what you’re doing, drop your weapons, and turn to me with your hands up!”

Fuck me sideways.

– 2 –

Detective Morrison had known something was up when he spotted Freeman feigning nonchalance as he rummaged in his pockets and produced a cigarette. The slight incline of the cop’s head, the tip of the hat seemingly directed at someone or something in the access road between the dingy apartment buildings, the way Freeman’s eyes kept shifting back to the alley rather than the usual vacant smoker’s stare at everything and nothing… they all added up to trouble.

Morrison knew Freeman by sight — the idiots he hung around with too, usually Harris and Stead, sometimes Valenti or Gorman — and by reputation. Why shouldn’t he? Being one of the first members of the department to be placed in a mixed-status partnership, he liked to keep abreast of what was going on in the deader community, and IA had approached him with a warning to keep an eye out for this bunch. Excessive force complaints, a few too many witnesses dropping off the face of the earth, five — or ten, or twenty — redeads on their beat in timeframes where there were only one or two everywhere else; it all added up to bad news.

Morrison hadn’t been looking for them — or trouble — tonight, though; he’d just been looking to grab a bite to eat. Russel’s Diner, almost universally regarded as the worst possible place to eat in this neighborhood, was a favorite hangout. He wasn’t turned off by the fact that Russel hired deaders, or the fact that it was on the edge of the Rotten Apple. Russel and his crew still made the best Crab Louie sandwich Morrison had ever tasted, and it was close to Marin’s apartment, making it a convenient spot to hit up when dropping off or picking up his partner.

As he did most nights, after dropping Marin off and making sure he took his pills — Marin was a good cop, a great cop even, but tended to get so wrapped up in his work that he forgot little things like eating, keeping his prescriptions current or changing out the bandages under his glasses — Morrison had stopped in for his usual, then headed down the street and back to his car. Seeing the one thing — and not seeing something else — he’d known his plans for a beer and some light reading before bed were going to be buried in paperwork.

He’d seen Freeman, pretending like he was just grabbing a smoke… but he hadn’t seen Alan, who was something of a local fixture. Poor kid had gotten turned early, infected and then killed by a stray bullet during a gang bust gone wrong; between the damage inflicted by his death and what he was, he wasn’t able to hold a job for long. When he was between jobs, Alan tended to lurk outside of Russel’s, doing odd jobs and panhandling. Morrison usually had his leftovers and a few bucks — or a ride to the drunk tank, where the kid could at least lie down for a bit — ready for him.

Morrison set his jaw and pulled the snap-strap off his pistol, sliding along the side of one of the buildings and making for the trash access that serviced both the apartments and Russel’s; whatever was going on in that alley, coming directly at Freeman seemed like an excellent choice to end up with nothing but paperwork and smoke.

When he got to the other side and saw another of the usual suspects — Stead, he thought, but from the back it might have been Valenti; both men had squat, square frames and walked like elephants, making it hard to tell them apart — waddling towards a third cop who seemed to be shaking down a suspect beside the dumpsters.

Well, well, well. The gang’s all here. The thick shadows cast down into the pass-through made it difficult to be completely certain, but the build and movements, familiar grandiose gestures seen in the halls of Precinct 13 of the NYPD, suggested Harris. Suspect #1 on IA’s meager attempts to clean up some of the lifest bullshit infesting the department. Muttering to himself, complaining about the dimwit that had decided to put the light fixture just above the fire escape ladder so it cast those long shadows, Morrison drew his gun and moved in, catching sight of the nightsticks being drawn a moment before they began crashing into the victim’s body.

“NYPD! Stop what you’re doing, drop your weapons, and turn towards me with your hands up!”

Morrison was a long veteran of dingy bars and late nights with only a bottle of Jack and a pack of Kools for company; while it played hell with sleep and gave him a nasty ratcheting cough in the mornings, it had become useful as an intimidation tool by roughening his voice, giving it the texture of a cement grinder. The man he thought was Harris released his grip on the victim’s shoulder, taking a step back and raising his hands; Freeman opted to get one more blow in, the nightstick’s wood veneer shattering and raining on the cracked pavement before he dropped what was left and turned to face his accuser, his white teeth gleaming brilliantly in the dark. Stead-or-Valenti froze, still five feet from the victim, and put his hands up, dropping the nightstick but not turning.

The voice providing a positive ID, Harris called out: “Easy, there, brother. We were just apprehending a suspect! Come a little closer, we can swap numbers and everything will be just fine.”

Morrison hated the snake-oil salesman tone in Harris’ voice; the subtle texture of lust and rage just beneath it were even worse.

Christ, no wonder we’ve got problems with sickos like this on the force, he thought as he advanced, gun still pointed at Stead-or-Valenti’s back. When he reached the fat man, Morrison used his free hand to spin him around, nodding. “Stead. Figures.” He gave him a dismissive shove, his lips quirking in a smile as Stead hit the crumbling brick of the building, farted loudly, and shrieked. Morrison dismissed him; he kept his eyes — and .45 — trained on Harris.

“Detaining a suspect, huh? Looks pretty well detained to me. And you,” Morrison locked eyes on Freeman. “Drop the best-pals grin, you lifest sack of shit. Think I didn’t see you break your billy on his kneecap? Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Keeping one eye on Harris and Freeman, he chanced a look to the side at the one they’d been beating on. He winced internally, as even a brief appraisal of the damage looked near-fatal.

It was Alan, or had been; hard to tell when a deader was still at it, especially when they were beat-to-shit and leaned against a wall with their head lolling bonelessly while blood and pus leaked out of them. Shuffling a couple feet to the side, Morrison hunkered and got his free arm under Alan’s neck, trying to lift him up.

“Jesus, Alan. C’mon, upsy-daisy. We’ll get you some help.”

He’d glanced away for a moment while he set his weight, but the soft scrape of shoes on pavement brought his attention back to the dirty cops in time to see Harris’ head jerk in his direction. Lurching back and giving a half-pivot, Morrison was left half-deaf but still alive as Stead put a bullet in the dumpster Morrison had been crouched in front of a moment before. Fat, lazy and lifeist the man might be, but he was also a crack shot.

Not giving himself time to think — it probably would have gotten both Alan and himself killed, as well as conjuring nightmare images of the paperwork Marin would be filing on his behalf for the shooting — Morrison jerked his right hand to the side and squeezed the trigger, aiming low.

Stead’s earlier shriek of fright when he’d mistaken his own fart for an attack was nothing compared to the sound that burst out of him when his shin exploded. That Morrison could hear it at all after two gunshots in a tight space was pretty impressive. Stead dropped, scrabbling at his wounded leg, screaming all the while.

Releasing his grip on Alan as gently as he could, Morrison turned his gun towards Harris and Freeman as he rose up. “Either of you dipshits want some?”

– 3 –

Alan was floating in a haze of semi-consciousness, only partially aware when the big man in the cream coat with the deep voice interrupted the beating. When the beanpole officer brought his club down on Alan’s knee, shattering both bone and billyclub, holding on to that small shred of awareness became a Herculean effort; he didn’t even have the air or will to try to scream as he slumped against the dumpster.

What followed felt like a stream of still photos, interrupted by five-second gaps every time his heavy eyelids shuttered down; the new guy — that part of Alan now recognized as another cop, the one that always had a scrap of food or a couple bucks for him — shoving the fat one against the wall; the cop trying to help him up, while Alan’s own muscles refused to cooperate; the ringleader, the one who stank of cheap cigars and dirty, stale sweat, gesturing; the fat one being shot.

When the helpful cop set Alan back down to deal with his brothers in blue, Alan’s head knocked against the dumpster. Following Murphy’s Law, a bright flash of pain tore through his head as the exposed nerves in the crater that had been his head until some over zealous little big had started taking potshots were abraded against the rusty green metal of the trash bin. The pain, greater than but different than the waves radiating from his shattered kneecap and broken ribs, brought things back into focus, removing the shutterstop effect from his vision and casting everything into bright relief despite the deep shadows.

He heard the do-gooder say something, catching only the last word, then saw him turn the gun on the two bastards who were still standing. The beanpole put his hands up, taking a step back. Alan didn’t quite believe the surrender; maybe it was just the dull ember of hate that was pulsing in his chest, maybe the probable concussion, or maybe that disquieting smile that the skinny one was still wearing, but it didn’t quite feel right.

The ringleader, though… he didn’t appear impressed. He shot a brow up, twitched the corners of his mouth in a smile that appeared about as genuine as a three-dollar bill to Alan, and cocked his head to one side.

“What, gonna shoot us all, Morrison? Sure that’ll go over real well. Fuckin’ deadhead, shootin’ another cop over a goddamn rot.”

Morrison took another step towards the ringleader, and while Alan didn’t see any fear in that move, he thought the slumped shoulders, stubble and downcast eyes meant the hero cop was more than a little tired. Exhausted, really. He wanted to warn him — Alan could see the other man tensing on his feet, ready to pounce — but his throat muscles didn’t want to work, the damage inflicted by the beating and the odd angle of his head making it hard to draw air. He stretched his fingers out to the side, crawling them across the pavement he lay on, looking for something.

“Well, Harris. Funny thing about my definition of cop. It doesn’t include lifeist bullshit.” Morrison smirked, angling his gun downward for a moment. “Besides, I doubt the department shrinks’d be too happy to hear you get your jollies beatin’ on panhandlers.”

“Only the ones who don’t know to respect me,” Harris rumbled, making his move. While Morrison had been gesturing at one piece of “equipment,” Harris had pulled a snub-nose .38 from under his shoulder, quicker than Alan would have believed; it was a hideously ugly thing, nickel-plated and wide-barreled. Inelegant and cheap, it looked like a toy manufactured in Taiwan, but it didn’t have to look good for it to do what it needed to.

Alan’s questing fingers had found what he wanted. As Morrison and Harris brought their weapons up, Alan twisted his wrist, flicking the metal core of the skinny cop’s nightstick with as much force as he could muster. He didn’t think it’d do any damage — his aim was shot, he didn’t have a good angle, and he was starting to have double vision — but he hoped at least to distract the one called Harris long enough to prevent Morrison from getting shot. Morrison was good people, stepping in when a lot of others would have walked on by — or worse, joined in — and didn’t deserve to get shot for him.

The chunk of aluminum sailed across the alley, spinning in the air like a fan-blade, and caught Harris in the shoulder just as the man fired. It didn’t look like it hurt much, but it was enough to throw his aim off. Sparks flew from the blacktop just behind and to the left of Morrison, who didn’t waste any time.

Holding his gun in both hands, his grip appearing calm and steady, Morrison returned fire. Alan swore he could see fire come from the barrel of the big man’s weapon, then stopped believing what he was seeing.

Harris began to shriek, his voice no longer deep and velvety, but high and shrieking. The sound was like listening to farm animals being slaughtered, sheep being led up the ramp; Alan saw both of Harris’ hands go to his crotch, but there was no crotch left to speak of.

Morrison’s .45 had destroyed the spot between Harris’ legs, leaving bloody drapes of blue fabric and flesh. As Harris crumpled to his knees, his shrieks tapering off as he ran out of air and neglected to take another breath, the skinny cop apparently decided he wanted no more of this. He bolted, hollering for help.

Morrison took a shuddering breath, holstering his weapon and moving towards Alan. “You’re gonna be alright, buddy. Okay? Gonna be okay.” While Alan didn’t quite believe the tone — it sounded more like Morrison was attempting to convince himself than anyone else, and his voice was quivering with shock — he appreciated the sentiment. He managed to bring his arm up and take hold of Morrison’s shoulder. With a grunt of effort, Morrison hoisted him up and got him leaning against the wall — taking the weight off his nonexistent knee and putting him in a position where his oddly-angled head wouldn’t be scraping the old wound.

Alan greyed out again, but saw Morrison start towards the mouth of the alley, bugling out cries for assistance, officer down. The fat bastard seemed to have fainted; the ringleader was facedown on the pavement, hands still clasped between his knees. Alan was fairly certain that one was dead.

Good. Darkness came for Alan then, and he welcomed it.

– 4 –

Morrison sat in the sterile hallway outside of the Internal Affairs Commission office, staring placidly at the white walls and trying not to fidget too much — the chairs were newer, plastic and metal abominations designed to squeeze your guts and turn your ass numb no matter how you tried to sit in them — while he waited.

IA had been alerted almost immediately after paramedics had arrived, summoned by the sounds of gunfire. While Stead and Alan were hustled off to Mother of Mercy, that new hospital complex — and Harris was being zipped into an oversized black plastic duffel bag — the responding officers had confiscated Morrison’s badge and weapon and put the cuffs on him. He thought he’d detected a note of sympathy in Barkowski’s eyes, but neither Barkowski or O’Banion had much to say to him. He didn’t expect them to, really.

He just hoped they found Marin a good partner. He was finished and he knew it, but didn’t think that was a reason to punish Marin. The odds weren’t good, though. At least half the boys in the precinct were members of the Order of Life, and most of the rest at least sympathized.

“Fuck,” he muttered as he covered his face with his hands.

Morrison didn’t glance up at the sound of footsteps, though he processed them. Sharp clicks, like a woman’s heels or very expensive men’s dress shoes. Evenly spaced, coming towards him. The sound stopped in front of him, and Morrison saw a pair of skinny legs clad in expensive looking slacks with a razor-crease through the gap in his fingers. Still, he remained quiet and still.

“Detective Morrison?” The voice was dry, somewhat dusty. Reminded Morrison of the accountants that worked down in fraud. No real emotional inflection in it. He sighed, raising his head to look up at the owner of the voice.

It was quite a reach; Morrison guessed the guy had to be at least six-six, all of him as skeletal as the broomsticks that served as the apparition’s legs. The face was severe, hard angles with pallid skin stretched tight across it. A single thin wisp of snow-white hair was slicked down atop the head, and the eyes, swimming behind thick rimless spectacles, were so light a blue they almost appeared to be white themselves. Morrison hadn’t had many dealings with the alphabet-soup agencies, but the man’s appearance, manner of moving, and dead-fish eyes practically screamed spook.

Morrison grunted, shaking his head. “Not for long.”

The spook smiled — at least, his mouth turned upward, revealing a line of perfectly straight, economic and startlingly white teeth — and extended his hand, holding out a thick manilla envelope with Morrison’s name written across it in thick black marker. “That remains to be seen. Certain parties would prefer to keep it so.”

Morrison reached for the envelope, arching his brow. “What’s this? Cream to keep my mouth shut?” If that’s what it was, he knew exactly where the spook could put it. He didn’t take cream; despised those who did. Yet another reason he was unpopular with his erstwhile brothers in blue. He worked his finger under the flap and started to worry the envelope open.

The spook raised a hand and rolled his eyes. “Please; my employers don’t believe in such things. The contents of that envelope, however, may resolve your current difficulties. Open it once I’ve gone. We’ll speak again.”

Without waiting for confirmation, the spook started away, fading down the hall the same way he had come, with sharp and measured clicking of his heels on the gray tile floor.

Morrison grunted, popping open the envelope and sliding out the top sheet of paper he found inside. Scanning it over, his eyes widened.

“Hoool-eee shit,” he whispered.

As though on cue, the door to the interview chamber popped open, and O’Banion’s round, flushed face and crop of carrot-colored hair peeped out. “Detective Morrison? We’re ready for you, now.”

Morrison resealed the envelope and stood, following O’Banion into the interview room to face the music… but thinking that he had the conductor’s baton and could change the tempo, now.

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