Martin did not put down the file. Nor did he hand it over to his brother, despite the anxious gaze over his shoulder indicating that Chris really wanted to look at it. Martin clutched it tightly, pretending he was going over it with a fine-toothed comb, when actually, he was staring forward at nothing, refusing to process the words he'd already skimmed through.
"So, will you do it?" The detective's query broke the spell, but only for a moment. Martin shot the man a serious look, then returned to his faux reading.
"I dunno," he admitted, "this is... not really our area."
"Martin, come on," Aviva said, sternly yet quietly, "we have to help." She was standing at his other side, and gripped his arm with her hand as she spoke. He always forgot how strong she was. "It's the right thing to do."
Martin frowned. She was right, of course, but he didn't like it.
Unknowingly, for the past few weeks, the Wild Kratts crew and the FBI had been tracking down the same person. The crew were after the kind of crook they wouldn't really tell the kids stories about, like they would with Zach or Donita, because few would find this particular fellow's crimes all that interesting or exciting. Someone was pilfering polycaetes, swiping sinonophores, aspecting Anopolas. In short, there was a worm thief on the loose. It was strange, they weren't just taking the rare specimens, like Palouse earthworms or Red Velvet worms or Pompeii worms, they were taking everything: acorn worms, hammerhead worms, Bobbitt worms, ringworms, ribbon worms, you name it, he'd nicked it. It was like this guy was obsessed or something, hoarding the things by the thousands, hiring everyone he could, from worm-grunters in the southern US to explorers going to remote jungles. The crew used these unknowing pawns to find the mastermind, and it'd led them to a man named Charles Ascott, who lived in Portsmouth, New Hampshire.
The two investigations crossed paths when Koki was prodding around for more information, and eventually poked the right people. A collaboration commenced. The FBI had way more information on the culprit than the crew did: he was a 75-year-old widower, the heir to a cardboard manufacturer's fortune and major recluse, who lived in a sprawling but decrepit mansion on the beachfronts of one of the Isles of Shoals, off the coast of the town. The property was once a reform school, a place where parents abandoned unwanted children, but after years of being itself abandoned, this Alcott guy turned it into his hideaway haven, where he slithered around in filth much like the worms he'd captured.
This should've been a welcome, if mildly disturbing break in the case. They'd found their guy - and not only that, the FBI were asking them to join this case, something that usually never happened, since the Wild Kratts crew's field of justice was considered "lesser" than most other law enforcement pursuits. So to get all this info, all this backup, should've been a godsend.
Only problem is, the Wild Kratts team had been searching for a worm thief. The FBI had been searching for a serial killer.
Everyone knew this now, of course. Martin withholding the file from them was not sparing them the truth, or accomplishing anything at all. And yet, Martin resisted slightly when his younger brother finally lost his patience, and wrenched the manilla folder from Martin's hand. As soon as it left his grasp Martin resigned himself, reacting in no way other than dropping his hands to his side.
"Jesus Christ," Chris muttered frightfully as he read. "Those poor people."
Martin suppressed the urge to retort, "I'm surprised you're just now bothered by that." The whole crew, himself excluded, loved watching true crime documentaries and procedurals and things like that, so of course they'd be willing to help. Even Jimmy enjoyed those most accursed movie nights where everyone decided they wanted to hear about gruesome murders unfolding, though he seemed unsettled now at the prospect of being involved in a real life one. Martin never liked stuff like that, he didn't find it "uplifting" as his mother put it, and usually excused himself from the watch party as soon as he was outvoted. But it wasn't like he could do that to the FBI, especially when he ended up already involved, and double especially when lives were on the line.
For the last two months, bodies had been washing up on the shore of Portsmouth: men, women, children, the elderly, all of them familiar faces in the small town. It was considered the worst crime in the area since the Smuttynose Murders(1), possibly of all time. In fact, they were definitely the worst, as far as Martin was concerned, because the one disgusting detail that linked all the deaths was that their corpses had washed up completely boneless.
A man obsessed with gathering invertebrates, and a murderer obsessed with turning his victims into them - they had to be one in the same. It made Martin sick to his stomach, that such overlap was even possible. There was peril in Martin's line of work, be it a nasty conflict with a poacher or crossing the path of a natural disaster, but for the most part it was a light-hearted occupation, exploring and protecting the wonders of the wilderness. When they did come face-to-face with evil, it was never one of this magnitude of depravity. To be so cruel, just because... well, it certainly made him feel sick to his stomach.
He definitely didn't want the rest of his team to face such a thing. If a man like that got his hands on Chris -
He couldn't finish the thought, or else he might've thrown up on the spot.
"How much help could we even give you guys?" Martin asked, trying to, no pun intended, worm his way out of a standoff with a psychopath. "I mean, sure he's affecting the creature world, but you guys are the ones actually equipped to take him out."
"I'm with Martin," Jimmy said. While an endorsement from his craven compatriot was a little embarrassing, Martin was glad anyone at all shared in his trepidation. "I mean, we deal in animals, not monsters, and this guy's a monster."
One of the detectives, a short, serious looking woman with a perfectly even bob cut, said, "well, the most important thing for our case is the profile - that is, the characteristics we've gauged out for this guy, which help us determine what he'll do next, and why. Thing is, what we have is incomplete. We need to figure out this worm fixation, how it's influenced him, and we're not sure we can do that without the experts."
"I mean, I don't understand either," Martin said under his breath, and then, more loudly, "I would fine with just consulting from the sidelines."
"I'm afraid that's not an option," the taller, lankier male detective said. "Two days ago, a bus driver named Milton Banks went missing, and we think he's been taken by Ascott. We know where this guy lives, so unless we want Milton to become the 8th victim, we need to move in now, and we'll need you to give your input in the field, on the fly."
Martin shifted uncomfortably. "I don't... is that safe?"
The male agent scoffed. "Says the guy who runs around in cyborg animal armor! Don't you deal with deadly eco-terrorists on the regular?"
Aviva squeezed Martin's arm again. This time, she spoke more gently. "Hey, cuate, can I talk to you for a sec?"
Martin nodded, and the two exited the conversation. As they left, Martin could hear, to his dismay, his baby brother eagerly announcing that he was happy to help.
"Martin, what's up?" Aviva asked once they were beyond the earshot of everyone else. She was surprised that he, of all people, wasn't jumping to the fore. "What's bothering you?"
"I just -" Martin rubbed the bridge of his nose. "We don't deal with this kind of thing. We never have."
"Martin, we deal with criminals all the ti-"
"No, I mean, this kind of criminal! This guy is so twisted, I - like, I can make sense of why people hurt and exploit animals. I don't like it, at all, but I get it. But this guy? What drives a man to rip out a person's skeleton and leave them - I'm not ready to deal with that kind of messed up. We deal with enough as is, I just... I just don't want him to hurt anyone on this team."
Aviva chuckled sadly. "Martin, it's sweet that you wanna protect all of us. But think of the people who are even more defenseless than we are. We've got the power vests, and we'll be in there surrounded by heavily armed agents, we'll be just fine. If we have the chance to stop a man who's killing innocents, shouldn't we take it? Maybe we can't cope with the gruesomeness of it like the cops can, but we can still fight this guy, easily! He's just one old man!"
Martin said nothing.
"I get it," she continued, "you never had the stomach for this. But you wanna help those people, right?"
Martin sighed shakily. "Yeah. Of course I do."
Aviva rubbed his back. "Besides, with you here protecting us, I feel even safer."
Martin gave an uncertain grin, and the two returned to the room.
"Alright," Martin said, "we'll do it."
As the agents sighed with gratitude, Jimmy gulped.
"Days like these," he croaked, "I miss being a civilian."
.
.
.
They made their move the next day. The crew had already arrived to New Hampshire in pursuit of the villain, and needed only to be directed to the headquarters of their new allies. They were shoved into the small Portsmouth police station with about 20 or so other officers and agents for briefing. Wearing their creature power suits, the team was getting looks from everyone else like they were clowns that had shown up to a funeral. To diffuse the tension, the lead detective was quick to introduce the odd bunch. "Everyone, these are the Wild Kratts, they're consultants. They specialize in zoology and are here to help us figure out the worm aspect of this case. They're equipped with enhancement suits, so don't worry too much about keeping them out of trouble, they can handle themselves."
That's reassuring, telling his men not to keep us safe, Martin thought, amidst the mumbles of "oh, I've heard of them," and, "my 10-year-old daughter has a crush on the blonde one," and "do those suits really turn them into animals?"
The guy in charge waved his hand, and silence suffused. "We'll hit quickly and quietly. His house is on the beachfront, so we'll move in as soon as we dock. Koki and Jimmy here will help with setting up the base tents and with communication."
"Phew, I don't actually have to go inside!" Jimmy whispered.
"The rest of the Wild Kratts will come in through the front, once the house has been secured. Whether you have a confrontation with the killer or not, we need your help making sense of the evidence."
Martin solemnly nodded. He turned to Chris, whose once determined face was now in a snit. As the group disbanded, Martin tried to pull his brother aside, but Chris darted off to talk to the lead investigator, and Martin was barred from reaching him, being suddenly surrounded by about 5 officers.
"So," one of them asked, "you deal with crazies a lot?"
"Um," Martin said, trying to look over them at Chris, "a different kind of crazy, I guess."
"Like what?"
Martin briefly gave up monitoring his brother. "People who wanna hurt animals. Poachers, hunters, shady property developers, stuff like that. We haven't dealt with any of the kind of stuff you do, the closest we ever got was... well, that cult in Montana(2), I guess."
"You know," another agent said, "one of the earliest signs that someone's a serial killer is that they show cruelty towards animals. Think any of your guys could be like that?"
Martin gulped. He hadn't thought of that before. Surely he knew his regular adversaries, and what they were capable of, but what if... what if he didn't? What if he had been dealing with true evil all this time? It didn't make him feel better about his chances here, but only increased his overall unease. His mind raced as he tried to figure out if any of his foes were truly that wicked. Zach? No, Zach was too squeamish and sniveling to be a cold-blooded killer. Donita? Again, she seemed rather squeamish, but turning animals into clothes was pretty twisted. Paisley? She had the right unfeeling personality, but her goal to pave the wilderness seemed like too big a priority for her to have any ulterior interests.
Gourmand?
Now that was a possibility.
"You good man?" One of the agents asked. "You look a little green around the gills."
"Yeah, sorry. Like I said, I don't deal with stuff like this."
"It can be hard the first few times," one admitted. "Just leave engaging with the bad guy to us. We'll try to steer you clear of anything too messy."
Martin expressed his gratitude, then trotted off to his brother, who was finished with his own chat.
"What'd you talk about?"
"Well, I went to ask the head guy... something I hadn't heard yet. That was how Ascott actually kills these people."
"Doesn't he take the bones out?"
"Maybe? For all we know that could've been done post-mortem. Sorry, uh-" Chris stuttered, remembering Martin might not know a lot of crime language, "I mean, he took the bones after they'd died."
"Yeah, I know what that means," Martin rolled his eyes, not thrilled about being talked down to by his little brother. "So, how else could he... you know."
Chris cradled his elbows uncomfortably. "They don't know. Alcott... he's not a surgeon. His bone removal is messy and rudimentary, not much of the bodies were well preserved."
"Ok, gross." Martin quickly dialed back on his disgusted reaction, noticing his brother was upset. "So, what are you thinking, bud?" He asked quietly, putting a hand on Chris' shoulder.
"As far as we know," he answered, swallowing hard, "this guy has a machine gun that he could use to pick us all off as we come charging up to his house. Or what if he uses a poison gas that he fills the house with, or what if-"
"Hey. Easy does it." He shifted his grasp so his whole arm was around Chris' back, and he escorted him to a quieter corner. Chris could get pretty high-anxiety, and Martin was good at noticing when he was starting to spiral. "I guess you're having second thoughts?"
"I dunno," Chris sighed. "It's like... it's one thing to watch insanity like this on some Netflix show, but to actually be a part of it?"
"I'm right there with ya, bro." Martin said. He was reluctant to go back on his own opinion on the operation just to talk Chris back into it, but knew they couldn't abandon the case now. "But these guys know what they're doing, they'll keep us safe."
"And what if they don't?"
"I will."
Chris frowned. "So, what, if the guy just starts shooting at us, you would stop the bullets?"
"No," Martin admitted, "but I'd get in front of you."
Chris shuddered in horror. "Martin, don't-"
"You know I would."
"I know," Chris said, looking at the floor.
Officers started funneling out of the building. One of the ones Martin'd talked to before signaled at him with a cock of the head towards the door.
"Come on," Martin said, "time to go."
Chris was hesitant to move. He just kept staring at his feet.
Martin frowned. Between the two of them, Martin was always the bold one, so if he had reservations, he couldn't imagine how Chris felt. "Chris, we'll be fine," was all he could say, even though he wasn't sure that was true.
Chris didn't stop looking down, but he did follow Martin out the door. "I've just got a bad..." he trailed off.
It wasn't much of a walk from the station to the harbor. All the boats were lined up, ready to go. On the crew's boat, they huddled together like they were wet kittens in a cardboard box. It was autumn, and while that's not yet quite winter, it was still fairly cold, made worse by the mists whipped up from the water.
The boats moved out. As soon as theirs lurched forward, everyone grabbed Martin in one way or another, as he'd ended up the center of the huddle, so they wouldn't fall over.
The sun was in the process of setting as they journeyed. It was never a spectacular gold and orange, but one of those quiet, even perhaps ominous blue to silver to black sort of sunsets. By the time they reached the island, everything was dark, the only illumination came from the agents' flashlights, and a sliver of moon.
Martin could only barely see the outline of a slanted roof against the night sky. They pointed their flashlights at the ground, and moved silently so as to not betray their raid, but as they found out very quickly, there was no point to that.
Martin could hear the sounds of the surveillance tents being set up behind him, and ahead of him, somewhere in the dark, the screaming of "FBI" and the kicking in of doors, followed by the repetition of "clear," wherever the agents seemed to go. By the time Martin reached the front door, there was a consensus: nobody was home.
Martin was still hesitant to cross the threshold, but once Chris and Aviva charged in, he felt compelled to follow.
The house was dirty, but not in the way he expected. He always thought a serial killer's house would be covered in blood and smell like bad meat. But this place was literally dirty, as in covered in dirt. The entire atrium was practically brown, with piles of dust in every nook and cranny and corner. The only furniture were tables, and all the tables were covered in jars and cups and bowls, and all those cups and bowls had worms. Martin and Chris went quickly to inspecting the bugs, making sure they were ok, and seeing what types there were. To their chagrin, they learned by being shouted at that they weren't actually allowed to touch or move anything, since it was considered "evidence." Martin just hoped this process didn't end up harming the animals, inadvertently or otherwise.
Honestly, Martin was glad it had turned out this way, glad no one was around. At least they had avoided a confrontation.
Though that did mean the killer was still on the loose, and Milton was still missing.
"So, did he know we were coming?" Chris asked.
"I dunno," Martin said. "I hope not."
"Could also be that he takes his victims to a secondary location, or there's, like a shed out back."
"Hm," was Martin's only reply.
"You know," Chris said, giving one of the jars a close but hands-off inspection, "all these seem to be the common specimens. Where do you think he keeps the rare ones?"
"I'm not sure."
"Let's split up," Chris said. "They've got to be around here somewhere."
Martin had had enough of inhaling dirt, so while Chris gave the upper floors another go-around with the agents, Martin went outside. He didn't end up out front, but in some backyard. There was one agent farther away from the house, checking the shrubbery with a flashlight, but other than him, Martin was all alone, and even then, that agent was quite a ways away. There was no fence at all, the expansive back yard went straight into the woods. There was no shed like Chris hypothesized, only a large planter where a vegetable garden could be, but wasn't.
God, what a day. Martin still wasn't sure how he could help, how having random knowledge of worms could help. The most he could think of was how cruel it was to keep worms trapped in jars on tables, instead of out here, in perfectly suitable dirt, but it wasn't like that was the worst crime this guy was committing, or like it gave particular insight into his behavior.
He couldn't wrap his head around it.
And then, something clicked.
Worms... they burrow!
He approached the planter. There were two of them, side by side, about five feet in length each. Of all the things that should've been filled with dirt, these were empty and clean, and seemed new. Strangest of all, they were loose. Martin grabbed them, and dragged them aside. His heart nearly stopped.
There was a narrow hole in the ground, surrounded by concrete, and a fixed metal later descending into it.
"Hey!" He shouted. "Hey, I think I found something!"
But when he looked up, the agent who was far off had vanished from view, and no one inside the house sounded like they'd acknowledge his call. He turned back to stare at the hole.
It looked old. The ladder's steps were covered in rust, and the concrete was cracked. Maybe this was part of the reform school, he thought. Maybe they threw the bad kids in here.
The hole seemed to put him under a haunting spell, that preyed on all his weaknesses. It was like the ghosts of the children were crying out to him, calling for his rescue, and his reckless, unwavering, fraternal instincts drove him to oblige. It didn't even cross his mind to get one of the agents, he was so utterly spellbound.
He looked at the hole, and went in.
The deeper he went, the stronger a hold the siren song had on him. No longer did he fret about coming face to face with a killer, his only thoughts were to follow the ladder to the base, and when he reached the base, his only thought was to follow the tunnel to the end.
Whatever dingy prison hole this once was had been renovated into the nicest room he'd seen all day. It was still basically a concrete box, but there was a lovely, ornate, dark oak desk with a red velvet lounge chair behind it, and an antique green-glass lamp giving the whole room a warm glow. There were beautiful paintings of landscapes on the walls, and an ornate, oriental rug that appeared well kept. There were still worms, but instead of being in random jars and cups, they were in nice glass terrariums, with miniature plants growing in their space - all save for one. On the center of the desk was an open petri dish, with a red worm writhing around in a little bit of water. He reached in to pick it up, but it bit him. He recoiled a bit, then picked it up by its tail.
It was a Bloodworm. Its feathery body thrashed around, and it spat a greenish bile from its mouth. Then, as it settled down, it opened its alien mouth, flexing a set of fearsome flashing copper fangs. Martin set it back in the water.
Wild things, they are, he thought.
There was a noise from under the desk. He went to look, pushing the chair out of the way.
And that's how Martin got stabbed in the foot.
He screamed and lunged backwards, but quickly fell to the floor, because whatever was plunged into his foot held it in place. Only once he was on his back could he jerk his foot free, and stare in horror as blood oozed from the top of his shoe. Reality began to hit.
What am I doing here? Why didn't I grab one of the agents? What was I thinking?
The noise beneath the desk turned into a dark shadow. The dark shadow turned into a man. He emerged from beneath the furniture like a nightcrawler bursting from the dirt in the rain.
His skin was grey and flabby, covered in old self-inflicted scars that his wifebeater shirt didn't bother to hide. There was dirt in his nails, dirt in his hair, even dirt in his teeth, which were displayed in an evil smile.
"Oh, don't be afraid of my little pets!" He had the voice of a kindly old grandpa, and the dissonance between his gentle weatheredness and corpse-like visage had Martin's head spinning. "They're harmless, just slimy and wriggly. Would you like to take a closer look?"
Martin turned and tried bolting back towards the ladder, but the old man shrieked and lunched at him, bringing him to the floor once more, this time face-down.
"He's got strong bones, but strong muscles too," the old man mused to himself. "I wonder if this one will survive?"
Martin could usually fight off frail old fellows like this, he just didn't want to, due to the bloody knife that was being held to his throat.
Then, there was that wonderful cry of "FBI!" that rang from above.
"HE'S DOWN HERE, HELP!" Martin screamed.
Two agents barreled down into the tunnel and approached, aiming their weapons at the villain. Martin wasn't too comforted by this, since if they just opened fire now he'd certainly be hit.
"FBI" was repeated, then "give it up Charles, it's over."
But Charles was in his own little world. The knife started pressing harder into the side of Martin's neck, as he sang softly to himself, "dig deeper, dig deeper."
"HEY! Put the knife down!"
Martin could feel it when he started to bleed. His panic renewed.
"I SAID DON'T MOVE!"
"Don't move?" Martin choked back. "If he doesn't move he'll stay on top of me!" So much for these guys protecting me! They'll stay right there and my throat'll be slit!
In fairness Charles wasn't trying to slit Martin's throat, he was trying to bury the blade deeper until it reached the spine.
Martin's hands were free. He decided it was time to act; they'd brought some power discs and DNA samples with them, all he had to do was reach into his pocket, then under his chest, then back into his pocket, and -
SLAM!
In a flash of Blue light, Martin was out of the killer's clutches. As soon as he was backed onto the wall, one of the agents tackled Charles to the ground, wrenched the knife from him, and handcuffed him.
The old man's face turned from amused to confused, then terrified once he beheld Martin's new form.
"No," he cried, "NO! Get that thing away from me, he'll EAT ME!" He began sobbing and wailing.
He had only turned into a Shrike.
Next thing Martin remembered, he was in someone's hand, being carried somewhere. They either left him as a bird because it was easier to get him out of the hole that way, or because they just didn't know how to turn him back to normal. But he saw Aviva run up to them, and - she asked a few questions, then started screaming, something about how his suit being activated could make the injuries worse. She pressed her thumb against the button on his chest, and the world went dark.
.
.
.
He woke up on his back. He was on the beach. He came to pretty quickly, despite the pain in his neck and foot.
Martin turned his head, to see that Chris was sitting nearby. His arms were on his knees, and his head was in his arms.
"Chris, hey!" Martin said wearily.
"You're awa- you're not supposed to move your head!" Chris quickly chastised him, turning Martin's face to look back up at the sky. From then on, Martin could only hear his brother's movements.
"Where's Charles?" he asked.
"They took him away on a boat. How did he even get you down there, did he sneak up and knock you out, or?"
Martin didn't want to admit that he walked right into a trap, so all he said was "I was stupid." Then, "why am I still here?"
"They're still looking for a helicopter, you - you weren't out for that long, honestly. Aviva was right, turning into a bird after being hurt like that must've thrown you off."
They sat quietly for a while. Martin heard Chris sniffle.
"I think I'll be fine," Martin reassure him.
"It's not - " he sighed. "I mean, yeah, I got scared, but..."
"You saw something else," Martin deduced, "that freaked you out?"
"We found Milton," he whimpered. "He was... in a bathtub."
"Alive? Or..."
"I was the first to find him. The agents didn't because he was... covered in dirt, and-" Chris choked back a sob. "He didn't look like a person anymore, so they didn't know it was him."
Martin could tell Chris was sparing him the gory details. God, and I thought I had it rough. To see something like that...
Martin moved his arm, and put it on his brother's knee. It hurt like hell to do it. But he needs this. He needs me.
"Chris?" He asked.
"Yeah?"
"I hope this means we're not watching any more of those documentaries for movie night."
This got a chuckle out of Chris. "Yeah, I don't think I could stomach any more of those."
"Finally!"
Chris looked down and saw the pain on Martin's face.
"What do you think... he was even doing?" Chris whispered. "What did he want?"
"I don't know," Martin said, "I'm just glad he didn't get it outta me."
"Honestly, after this, a run-in with Zach or Donita would be a relief."
"¡Nos hagas eso! Don't do that!"
Next thing they knew, Aviva was upon them, and frantically shooing Martin's arm off of Chris. It was somewhat of a relief, because that really started to hurt. Koki and Jimmy were close behind her.
Jimmy's eyes widened. "Martin - oh my god, are you ok?"
"Yes Jimmy, I'm fine. Taking knives to the neck is my favorite pass time."
"Esta preocupado, Martin, be nice," Aviva scolded.
"Ugh, why did we even do this?" Jimmy complained, plopping next to Chris. "Like, what did we accomplish?"
"Well, Chris found...Milton," Martin pointed out.
"And you found Ascott," Chris said.
"You mean Ascott found him," Jimmy wrongfully corrected.
Martin set the record straight. "No. I found Ascott. And I don't know if they would've otherwise."
"So it was worth it then," Koki chimed in.
"Yeah," Martin said.
They all looked at the sky. There were no stars, just an endless black.
"Yeah."
.
.
.
(1) A real double homicide, occurring on Smuttynose Island in 1873.
(2) This story has not yet been told, but will be.
