The empty parking lot was dark. Only a single tungsten lightbulb, shining high overhead from a pole in the far corner, illuminated the immediate space, while the rest of the asphalt, back where Jim ran, was blanketed by the night. There was no moon, no diffused glow from other sources. Just the lightless void. He saw the figure emerge from the lot ahead of him, moving into the brighter area where the detective could just make out a dark ballcap and dark clothing. Clutched tightly in the man's grip was a woman's long, blonde hair, her lifeless body splayed out behind her. Then the figure was moving through the circle of light and heading off beyond the dimensions of the parking lot, dragging his trophy behind him. Jim Brass tried to shout out an authoritative warning, to insist the figure stop and wait for him, as he raced behind, but the words were trapped inexplicably in his throat.
There was a squeal of rubber on pavement, and Brass felt the immediate and disorienting displacement of air as the big SUV whistled past. Jim felt it but he couldn't see it, the vehicle didn't have its lights on, and it was only dumb luck that it hadn't mowed him down. He had to put his arms out to steady himself, tottering for a moment before he regained his balance. Angrily, a string of expletives erupted, as he found his voice again. The words were cut short by a sudden sickening thud, ahead and to his right. Brass veered in the direction, as sweat broke out on his brow, not from his physical exertions, but from the horrified understanding of what that crunching sound had probably meant. Someone else, also moving in the dark, had not been as fortunate as he.
The leather tip of Jim's left shoe struck something, and then he was going down. He had a moment to brace for impact, to hold his arms out protectively, and to mentally prepare for the potential pain when he connected with the hard ground. Something soft and yielding broke his fall, and then his hands were slipping out in front of him, in something warm and wet. Brass went down on his chest, knocking the breath from his lungs with a sudden whoosh. He knew all too well what that coppery smell was, even before he could reach for the flashlight clipped to his belt and click on the beam.
Jim recoiled in horror, scrambling backwards, away from the eviscerated body of the prone man. He dropped the flashlight, and as it rolled away from him, he was spotlighted in its glow. Frantically, the detective attempted to rub the blood and gore from his hands, against the front of his jacket, and onto the thighs of his pants. The panic was intense, but brief, and then his training took over and his body began to move on auto pilot. Brass picked up the flashlight again, sticky in his hold, and shone it onto the man's mangled form.
The man wouldn't be alive...couldn't be alive...but Jim had to check anyway. He reached for the man's neck, jutting at an unnatural angle away from his head, and pressed his fingers against the carotid artery. He was not surprised that it failed to throb beneath his touch. No one could survive injuries of this magnitude. The speeding SUV, its driver unable to navigate in the dark, had crushed the man's body while he was still on his feet, breaking bones and splitting flesh and skin. Surely the driver would have felt the impact, but he...or she...had just kept going. Jim's fury burned hot.
The yellow-white light of the Maglite picked out the features of the man's face, remarkably undamaged compared to the carnage the rest of him had sustained. In shock and sorrow, Jim stared into the vacant eyes of Denny Martens. He gave a guttural cry of rage and disbelief.
There was laughter in the dark beyond, a low, malicious chortle, and Jim's head snapped up. The empty parking lot was dark. Only a single tungsten lightbulb, shining high overhead from a pole in the far corner, illuminated the immediate space, while the rest of the asphalt, back where Jim knelt by the body, was blanketed by the night. There was no moon, just the diffused glow from the Maglite. He saw the figure emerge from the lot ahead of him, moving into the brighter area where the detective could just make out a dark ballcap and dark clothing. Clutched tightly in the man's grip was a woman's long, blonde hair, her lifeless body splayed out behind her. Then the figure was moving through the circle of light and heading off beyond the dimensions of the parking lot, dragging his trophy behind him. Jim Brass tried to shout out an authoritative warning, to insist the figure stop and wait for him, as he struggled to his feet, shoving the flashlight back into his waistband, but the words were trapped inexplicably in his throat.
Jim was running hard, his breath hot and heavy, his heart jackhammering in his chest. Christ, he was getting too old for this. And he'd had maybe a few too many plates of pasta over the last decade, and a few too few laps around the track, to be engaged in such a laborious foot pursuit. Of course, he thought as he ran, his arms and legs pumping hard, it would be a hell of lot easier if he'd just give up the cancer sticks. Brass slowed his pace momentarily, raising his hand to his lips, pressing the filtered tip there. He inhaled deeply, revelling as the nicotine filled his aching lungs. Suddenly he pulled the slim, white cylinder from his mouth. What the hell? He'd quit smoking years ago!
Disgustedly, Jim flicked the lit cigarette away and to the left. Almost at once, a crimson pyre lit up the night, and Jim slowed and turned, stopping in stunned disbelief. It was a human form, engulfed in flame. A hideous, garbled moan escaped the tortured soul, as it thrashed around, somehow still on its feet. Its arms waved wildly in the air. The man...he assumed it was a man, or a very, very tall and broad-shouldered woman...was well over six feet, he gauged. Jim's gut spasmed as the stench of burning flesh assailed his nostrils. He opened his mouth in a silent, empathetic scream, as he imagined the excrutiating pain the poor soul must be in.
There was no one around to help, no one to back him up, and nothing else to do. Even though there was no chance his efforts could be successful, and every chance he would be injured in the process, Brass flung himself at the human inferno. He aimed low against the legs, tackling the man and bringing him down. Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth in anticipation of the searing pain to come, he pressed his own body over the larger form, and then rolled with it in a desperate and futile imitation of the familiar mantra...'stop, drop, and roll'. Pulling back only long enough to remove his suit jacket, Jim then began trying to smother the flames, while the body beneath the tweed writhed in agony.
Amazingly, the fire seemed to burn itself out, just as suddenly and strangely as it had initially begun. Soon only tendrils of grey smoke rose into the area above the charred remains. Jim sat back, his head hanging on his bent knees, gasping for air, trying not to breathe through his nostrils. He sputtered and coughed up greasy, dark phlegm. Incredibly, he could feel no pain. Brass assumed, with the detachment of shock, that his burns were so severe the nerve endings had been seared. Perhaps that was a blessing.
Once again, shaking fingers found the flashlight, and then Jim was crawling towards the blackened heap, unable to stave off some macabre need to view the victim of the conflagration in as much gut-wrenching detail as possible. Typically, the burn victim was curled fetally. The entire body surface was blackened, flaking away in chunks, leaving red and raw exposed flesh. Jim found himself praying that the poor bastard was dead. When his light swept up across the expansive chest area and onto the man's eerily undamaged face, Jim's jaw dropped. Even with features contorted eternally in pain, and the dead man's eyes rolled back in their sockets so that only the whites were exposed, there was no mistaking Elliott Keeth's identity.
Brass began to shake, his whole body trembling convulsively. He had to look away from the burned man, to find something else to focus on. Clinically, he turned the flashlight on himself, inspecting his hands and forearms. Miraculously, though the fabric of his clothing had been eaten away in chunks, lapped at by the hungry, red-gold flames, Jim's skin, still stained scarlet with Denny Martens' blood, was unmarred.
There was laughter in the dark beyond, a low, malicious chortle, and Jim's head snapped up. The empty parking lot was dark. Only a single tungsten lightbulb, shining high overhead from a pole in the far corner, illuminated the immediate space while the rest of the asphalt, back where Jim knelt by the body, was blanketed by the night. There was no moon, just the diffused glow from the Maglite. He saw the figure emerge from the lot ahead of him, moving into the brighter area where the detective could just make out a dark ballcap and dark clothing. Clutched tightly in the man's grip was a woman's long, blonde hair, her lifeless body splayed out behind her. Then the figure was moving through the circle of light and heading off beyond the dimensions of the parking lot, dragging his trophy behind him. Jim Brass tried to shout out an authoritative warning, to insist the figure stop and wait for him, as he struggled to his feet, shoving the flashlight back into his waistband. But the words were trapped inexplicably in his throat.
Once more he was in pursuit, his quarry tantalizingly nearby. Jim raced through the dark, and by the time his steps had taken him to the lamp post, his sides were heaving and cramping. He stood in the illuminated blue-white circle that spread out from the tungsten bulb above. Bent at the waist, his hands on his knees, Brass attempted to suck in enough fresh oxygen to satisfy the indignant protests of his lungs. His peripheral vision noted movement, and a shadow fell across him from behind, intersecting his own.
Jim whirled, withdrawing the 9mm with a speed and grace that would have been the envy of any professional gunslinger back in the Wild West. Holding it at chest level, his arms fully extended, he swept from right to left and back again. There was no one there, nothing to account for the shadow. Brass saw it again, from the corner of his left eye, and pivoted. He realized then that the shadow was not coming from behind or beside him, but from above.
He tilted his head back, and looked up. Suspended from thick rope, the end of which looped up over the metal arm of the lamp post, feet dangling just a scant six inches above Jim's head, was the naked body of a man. The body jerked and spasmed soundlessly, as it danced its death throes, casting changing shadows on the asphalt below. The body hadn't been there when Jim had first broken through into the circle of light, he was sure of it. Aware that the man was close to asphyxiation, Jim concentrated desperately on how best to get him down. He had no chair, no ladder, nothing to climb up on. And even if he had, he had no knife, no way to cut the rope. There was only one hope. Stepping back, raising the firearm in the air, Brass squeezed off a quick succession of shots.
One or more found the mark and severed the rope, and the body fell to the ground in an ignominious heap. Jim rushed forward, his fingers scrabbling to unknot the lariat that crushed the man's larynx and cut off his air supply. His efforts were doomed though. The man had already expired before he'd even hit the ground. He cradled the man's head and looked down into the drawn features and expressionless almond-shaped eyes of Joe Takei. Brass shook his head in denial of the truth.
There was laughter in the dark beyond, a low, malicious chortle, and Jim's head snapped up. The empty parking lot beyond was dark. Where Jim knelt, only the single tungsten lightbulb, shining high overhead from the pole to his right, illuminated the immediate space while the rest of the asphalt, back where the sound eminated, was blanketed by the night. There was no moon, no diffused glow from other sources. Just the lightless void extending out from the circle of light. Brass was suddenly aware, with an acute sense of impending doom, that he was terribly exposed.
Backing away from the body, Jim half-rose to his feet, in a crouch intended to make himself a smaller target. He swung the gun in the direction of the eerie laughter, trying to keep his hands steady. Who was out there, in the dark? Why were these three men dead? He cocked his head, straining to pick up the slightest sound. A footfall on asphalt. The rustling of a pant leg. The inhalations or exhalations of the hunted who had become the hunter. The laughter came again, behind him this time, and the detective whirled. A sour sweat oozed from his pores, creating a greasy film on his face. It collected above his brow, spilling over into his eyes. The salt stung, but Brass didn't dare risk holding the gun in one hand alone, while using the other to brush the excess moisture away. He blinked his eyes rapidly, to little avail.
There was laughter to his left, and then to his right just a split second later. No man could move that quickly. Were there two assailants? Or, gripped by fear, was he misjudging the direction of the sound? Miscalculating time, or space or distance? In confusion, he wheeled first one way then the next. Brass wanted to edge away from the circle of light, back to the relative safety of the dark, only he was afraid of moving closer to whatever waited for him out there.
'Where are you? Who are you?' he wanted to shout indignantly, but the words were locked in his throat.
The laughter grew louder. More intense. Closer. It pressed in around him from all sides, and even though he couldn't see it, he could feel it, the evil a palpable living thing that whispered across the exposed surfaces of his skin, raising gooseflesh. He thought he heard his name...one short, sharp syllable. And then a moment later, Denny Martens' corpse stepped inside the circle of light. Martens' head lolled on his neck, and his entrails dragged behind him, but his steps were determined. The strength went from Jim's arms, and the gun dipped for a moment, before he brought it back up with a supreme force of will. He didn't know what good it would do him, though. Even if he thought he could shoot Denny, as a act of self-preservation...well, Denny was clearly already dead.
Once more, Jim heard his name. He was surer of it this time. He heard it again, a deep basso profundo, clearer this time, the words echoing with mock sorrow. 'He's dead, Jim.' Then Elliott Keeth stepped into the circle of light. His eyes were still rolled back in his skull, their whites vivid against Keeth's mahogony features. As he moved there was a brittle, crackling sound, and then his left arm fell off, disintegrating into a pile of grey ash when it hit the asphalt. Instinctively, Jim swung the barrel of the gun towards Elliott. But he too was unmistakably a corpse and the bullets would offer no protection.
By the time he heard his name again, Brass knew what to expect, and he stared in stupefied fascination as the naked shell of Joe Takei picked itself up from the ground and advanced towards him. Jim let his arms drop to his sides in defeat, and the gun dangled against the bloodied pant leg of his right thigh. They had him surrounded. If the trio of walking zombies meant him harm, if they intended that he join them in the next world, Jim had no defense against them..
As the three dead men moved another step inward, closing the invisible net around Jim, the laughter came again from the blackness. Rich with pleasure, it mocked his predicament. Anger surged through Brass' veins, temporarily overriding his terror. 'Where are you! Who are you!' This time, he heard the force and clarity of his own voice as it echoed through the empty parking lot.
In unison, the three fallen detectives turned their heads, and Jim followed what would have been their line of vision, had the dead men been capable of sight. There, on the edge of the lighted space, was the figure in the ballcap and dark clothes that Jim had initially sought. The cap was pulled low, and he couldn't make out the man's face. Still clutched tightly in the man's grip was the woman's long, blonde hair, dirty and encrustsed with dried blood, her lifeless body splayed out behind her.
The man raised his arm then, and the woman's head came up. Where her eyes had been, were dark sockets, crawling with fat, white maggots. More of them wriggled through her nostrils, spilling out onto the pavement, and Jim's lips curled in disgust. When she opened her mouth, further clumps of larvae tumbled from the cavern within. Like the rustle of old parchment, lips as dry as dust formed around whispered words.
'And the wicked go free...'
It was only when Denny Martens' hand descended on Jim's shoulder, that he finally started to scream.
Jim measured coffee grounds and spooned them into the basket. It was only just past four a.m. but there would be no more sleep for him tonight, he knew. The nightmare had left its residue on him. He was jumpy, edgy, his senses on full alert. It had been a particularly disturbing and gruesome dream. He had woken with a physical jerk, in time to hear the pathetic cry of terror that issued from his throat in a choked and ineffectual wail. His body was drenched in perspiration, and his heart pumped the blood through his veins in double time.
He had turned towards Cecilia, surprised to find her still asleep and apparently undisturbed. Jim had eased himself from the bed, fumbling through his drawer in the dark to get a clean pair of pajama pants, before slipping quietly from the bedroom and down the hall to the main bathroom. He lost track of how long he stood in the shower, under a spray as hot as his skin would allow. There was a chill deep in his bones and it seemed at first that he would never get warm. Jim let the water sluice over him, while thick clouds of steam billowed around. He pressed his palms against the front wall, bowing beneath the showerhead, waiting for his heart rate to return to normal.
All that he retained of the nightmare were vague impressions of the three dead detectives, an overwhelming sense of horror, and the memory of five, whispered words. 'And the wicked go free...'
Cecilia had picked him up from the airport the previous day. Jim had been so glad to see her, elated when he picked her lovely bronzed features out of the crowd. They hadn't spoken of what he had learned in L.A. until they were back at his apartment. Cecilia had been unsure of what to make of the new information, but accepted his belief that there was something more sinister here. She had stated that if indeed the three seemingly accidental deaths were linked, and were actually murders, that the ramifications of that, and the cool deliberateness of it, were chilling.
They had made dinner together, working side by side in his kitchen. Roast pork loin with apricots, mashed potatoes, gravy and asparagus. Since Jim had the day off, and Cecilia the night off, they enjoyed a bottle of white wine with the meal and a couple of liquers afterwards, snuggled together on the sofa, listening to music and talking about things other than police work, forensics, and the deaths of the three detectives.
Later, in the satiated afterglow of shared passion, Cecilia's back tucked against his chest, a relaxed Jim had drifted uneventfully off to sleep. While there were many nights that he found it difficult to turn his mind off, that night rest had come easy. His final thoughts had been pleasant ones. So he had been surprised to wake in the hours of early morning, with the fractured, unpleasant images in his head. He knew that he dreamed, everyone did, but Jim often could not recall any of his imagination's nocturnal musings.
He sat now at the kitchen island, sipping his coffee. As he watched the steam rise from the surface of the hot brew, Jim had a fleeting impression of a charred human form, from which curled grey plumes of smoke. He shook his head as though to clear the intrusion of the unwelcome imagery. It wasn't so surprising really, he thought, that coming on the heels of the deaths of three former colleagues...all of whom had died tragic, painful deaths...he should have haunted dreams.
'And the wicked go free...'
It was a line from the letter Denny Martens had received. Something niggled at Jim again. Skirting the edges of his thoughts. He struggled to recall more of the dream, and to place the whispered words into the context of the nightmare. But the details were vague...emotional impressions, and random, heart-wrenching visuals. If the dream had had a plotline, it was lost to Jim now. If his subconscious had been trying to send him a message, he hadn't been able to grasp it.
He gripped the mug with both hands, his lips pressed thinly in vexation. He was missing something, Jim knew.
CSICSICSICSICSICSICSI
The gaunt figure, seated at the formica-topped kitchen table, clasped the whiskey bottle, feeling the weight of it in his hands. He brought it to his nostrils and inhaled the pungent scent of the liquor. A slow smile spread across his thin face, and then he laughed heartily, in an expression of self-satisfaction. He wondered if they had found the bottle he had switched on them. He doubted that there had even been an investigation. The Laughlin papers had reported 'accidental' death. But just in case...he had covered his tracks. These dimwits were no match for his genius.
He stared out at the darkness, knowing that most of the city was still in peaceful repose. He found that he himself needed little sleep these days. Slumber was just a waste of time anyways. There were still things that needed to be done.
Keeth had had to settle and old debt. And the only way to pay for it properly had been the forfeiture of his life. He envisioned again the fight that had come into the middle-aged man's eyes at the end. And then, finally, gratifyingly, the realization that he had been bested, and most importantly...the fear.
He pushed the Crown Royal bottle aside and drew the piece of newsprint towards him. Every day, he would take it down from its place on his fridge. He studied the grainy, black and white images of the mourners at Denny Martens' funeral. He wondered how the grieving widow and half-orhpaned boy were getting on.
Picking up the ballpoint pen, pausing his perusal to enjoy the satisfaction of the hole that had once been the headshot of the late Detective Elliott Keeth, his eyes searched out that other visage. This one. This was the one that held his interest now. How many sleeps would he grant this one? How many days or weeks until another score would be settled? Another accident prematurely terminating a life.
But in those final moments, it would be his face his prey would see. And his victim would know. The last thought to echo through his head would be the understanding that his own shortcomings had caused his death. He imagined that face, the eyes wide with desperation and pleading. With the knowledge that to the world his death would appear an accident, and would go unavenged. Justice denied.
He whispered the name, over and over. Savouring the sound of it on his tongue. Pressing pen to paper, he began to circle the image, faster and faster, exerting greater force, until that portion of the newspaper photograph separated from the images around it.
And then there was one...