Judge Hepburn fell into his swivil chair.
"Dead?" he asked across the cell phone.
"Yes, Sir. Buckland Wallen, Edgar Roberts and Commissioner Jerry Brusard. Is something wrong?"
Judge Hepburn dropped the fun and buried is head in his hands, all what was around him vanished as he succumbed to the fear within, the hellish sensation of the teeth almost clutched around his throat.
He could predict how he would die, the card was before him at the moment; Justice. Numbered Eleven or XI according to the Rider-Waite-Smith Tarot Deck. It fit with his persona perfectly.
He was hoping that whatever it was, the Police Department would catch it, he had heard the rumors that the Detective of the Case was a Psychic, and truly hoped she could stop it. But then fate took a turn, the riots had started in the city, shifting the police department's resources to handle the looting and vandalism going on. Also, the FBI would soon take charge of the case instead of Lieutenant Dodson. Further diminishing his chances of survival. He had only one hope left.
He mustered the will to pick up a pen and an undistinguished peace of paper, on which he wrote eight words.
'Andrew Moreau Hepburn,
Robin Wayland,
Garth James Mason.'
He folded the piece of paper and stuck it into an envelope, on which he scribbled the address of Lt Angela Dodson.
A few hours passed, and suddenly, there was no more Judge Hepburn.
--------------------------
The Tower Victim turned out to be none other than Buckland Wallen, killed by a forced fall from a thirty-five story building, who was suspected in the murder of Delia Moon. The Number 16 was carved into his forehead.
The truck that abducted Commissioner Jerry Brusard was found a mile away from the scene, hooks were welded to the bottom of the truck to ensure the body would be dragged along; he died of massive wounds sustained by the accident. His right arm was torn off in the process and was found nowhere near the scene. The number seven was carved into his chest, alluding to the Chariot tarot card.
--------------------------
12, 2, 1, 6, 18, 17, 16, 7 ...
Angela sat at an Irish pub she and Isabel hung around in their twenties, she had stopped coming for some time, but she felt a sudden urge to be somewhere away from everything, the riots, the murders...
She gazed upon the numbers she had scribbled on the peace of paper, they were the numbers of the tarot cards that had happened so far, except for the first three if the final four, were completely random.
L.B.A.F.R.Q.P.G. ...
The letters that corresponded were no help either.
This morning, Captain Watford had given her news she was off the Fortune Killer Case. He put her of sabbatical, even offering a sexist comment as he did so, which was highly unlikely of the Captain. It suddenly occurred to her that the city was going insane all of a sudden, with the riots and everybody showing their ugly selves.
Michael suddenly was there, he sat on the bar stool next to her and ordered a Whisky.
"Lieutenant."
"Call me Angela." she said, "What kind of name is Demiurges?"
"There have been a new murder." answered Michael, ignoring her question.
"Oh yeah?"
"Judge Andy Hepburn."
Judge Hepburn had given them a warrant to arrest Simon Messing the magician, and rather hastily which made her suspicious at the time.
She remembered something else all of a sudden, a piece of paper that she had received earlier. She reached to her pocket and pulled out the short list that had three names on it, the top being the Judge's.
"What's that?"
"A Hit list. Which has been lowered to just two names."
"Where did you get it?"
Angela paid him no attention as she drink the rest of her beer and sprang to the door, "Come on, Michael." she said, "How did Hepburn die?"
Michael hurried to catch up with her, "He had his left arm chopped of with an antique sword the same sword was used to pin him to the wall."
"The Left arm is gone?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Don't you find it strange that all the bodies have missing parts? I mean think about it, the first had his entrails spilling out on the floor. The Second was mauled by a lion. The Heart was missing from Simon messing, Delia Moon has missing a pair of eyes, the Married couple had a four fingers missing of each. Edgar Roberts was so burned that it he might had been missing something before he burned. Buckland Wallen was missing an ear, while Commissioner Brusard had a missing a right arm."
"So, you're saying that whoever is doing this has enough parts to perform a full body?"
"Not yet, and the body will be malformed."
"But why?"
"Michael, I need you to have a very open mind." she said as they got into her SUV.
------------------
"What?"
Angela had finished explaining the situation to Michael in Club Midnite.
"Think about it, how does someone manage to kill Ten People in less than a week without leaving a trace behind, and how can he be there to throw Wallen on the roof then drive the Truck to kill Brusard?"
"But..." Michael said, obviously in a loss for words. He turned to Midnite and asked, "And you would be...?"
"Papa Linton Midnite, a Witch Doctor."
"Any news on the Demon?" asked Angela.
"Not yet, with the city in chaos, it's hard to get proper intelligence." answered Midnite, "Not even my clientele are showing up, the Angels are trying to control the situation and the Demons want to make it worse."
"What about the sword?" asked Michael as he pushed forward the picture of the antique sword from the Justice murder. Midnite looked upon it and recognized it instantly.
"Second Century, Scandinavian, most likely Norse."
"You know, we shouldn't be doing this," said Michael, "Were not on the case anymore."
"I'm not sure the governments can handle otherworldly threats like this."
"Actually, the NSA used to have a covert occult division, but it's director eventually went to work for the Devil." said Midnite, "What makes you sure this isn't a trick from the killer?"
"I know Judge Hepburn wrote this, I can feel it. I guess the past victims are connected, everyone. The married couple, the Magician, the Commissioner, Judge Hepburn. I KNOW that at one point, all these had crossed paths and started the chain reaction that is culminating in these murders."
"But how?" asked Michael, "We already checked, it's very unlikely all of these men and women had crossed paths by someway other than coincidence."
"There is just one way to find out; seek out the last two on the list."
"I'll see what I can do." said Michael as he walked away.
"Can you make anything of this?" asked Angela as she handed him the napkin with the numbers and letters on it.
"I've already tired it, it's entirely random."
Angela looked at Midnite both sternly and pleadingly.
"I can try again, though."
"Thanks, I'll go talk to some informers." said Angela as she headed to leave, but Midnite stopped her in her tracks when he said, "There is another way."
"For what?" she asked as he turned around.
Midnite seemed hesitant, already regretting even thinking of what he had in mind.
"There is an item I have, which can be used to search for any person."
"What id it?"
"It's a chair... An electric chair, the one from sing-sing."
"How does it work?"
"It has to be used by someone of power. Constantine used it sometimes in the past. It emphasizes your psychic sensitivity and enables your senses to travel through time and space, allowing you to track down certain people or items."
"Well get me to it."
"It's not that easy, you might get killed."
"But you sad Constantine used it."
"Constantine had considerable control of his power at the time, which I'm not sure you have at the moment, though you are more powerful than him, which can make it easier for you."
Angela thought about i for a moment, "I'd rather not risk it right now, I want to give Michael a chance first."
"Speaking of the Devil," said Midnite, "Don't you find something off about him?"
"Off like what?"
"I donno, there is more to him than meets the eye. I guess only time will tell."
--------------------------------
A tall lean figure dragged several large bags into the top floor of an abandoned building, there were no occupants, not even homeless ones for the building was likely to crumble at any moment. The figure ripped the bags open and poured the contents onto the wooden floor of the ample and empty room, it sorted out the objects even though there was no source of light but moonlight coming from the holes in the ceiling. Arms, feet, Eyes, Ears. Next on his agenda was carve the wooden floors and splash blood on the walls, lay down a few candles and exit, heading out to do his dubious bidding.
------------------------------------
Hours later, Michael returned to her saying that no Robin Wayland was found anywhere, as Garth James Mason had been missing for years, the only remaining kin of either was Garth Mason's son.
Angela and Michael stood outside the son's apartment door, which was painted red for some reason, located in somewhat bohemian neighborhood. Michael rang the door.
"Fuck Off!" came the response, loud, angry and in a British accent.
"Mr. Mason, would you please open the door?" asked Angela.
"Fuck..." shouted Mason sharply, there was a pause and then he shouted "...Off."
Michael rang some more, footsteps were heard and the door swung open to reveal the occupant, who was thin and a bit on the short side, being as tall as Angela, he had a light beard and long black hair and wore a white shirt stained with paint. Michael raised his badge quickly.
"Oh, what do you want?" he asked as he adopted a more polite attitude at the sight of the badge.
"Are you Garth Mason Jr.?" asked Angela.
"Yes."
"We've been wondering what had com of your father."
"My what?"
"Your father."
"My father left us when I was ten. He's either dead or shacked up with some tight tart. Why?"
"We suspect he may be targeted in the Fortune murders."
"The What?"
"The gruesome murders that had the city up for the last ten days."
"Oh, those.. I've been staying in lately. I've got me hands full."
Angela looked into the apartment wreaking of the smell of paint, smooke and incense.
"Mind if we come in?"
Garth smiled kindly, stepped back into the apartment and said "Yes.", then slammed the door shut.
"Artists.."
---------------------------------
"Back to Midnite, then?" asked Michael as the two headed to their SUV.
"Looks like."
A figure was approaching from around the corner, tall thin and cloaked, allowing none of his features to be seen. He marched on the sidewalk with his hands buried into his pockets, as he passed next to them, she couldn't help but smell an odd and familiar smell.
"So what now?"
"Midnite mentioned something about a chair."
"What?"
"Nothing. It's sort of a last resort. Let's try to track down Wayland.
"You know it's weird, ten years ago Robin Wayland was on the rise, politically speaking, some said he would end up as Mayor or Governor, maybe even President. Then he fell off the face of the earth."
Angela was getting an uneasy feeling, like something horrible was going on outside her range of view.
"Slay the Future..."
The words she heard when looking into the Hanged Man's eyes filled her mind for a second. The cloaked man suddenly came back to her, and his smell soon registered as that of sulfur and blood.
"It's him!" she said as they were a few feet away from the car.
"What?"
"The man with the hood, it's the Fortune Killer!"
---------------------------------------------------------
Garth Mason was striking at his canvas with red paint, cursing at the lights which were flickering strangely, when the sudden, constant, slow and rhythmic knocking came to his ears.
"What?" he asked as he swung the door open.
The corridor outside his apartment was darker than usual, with some of the lights going off all of a sudden and only one working properly, which were right above his door. The lights cast an ominous shadow on his clocked visitors face, rendering it a peace of blackness.
"Garth Mason?" asked the visitor in a gruff, sinister, howl like voice.
"Aye, that's me."
The visitor raised an antique Scandinavian sword, one stained with dry blood.
"I've come for your flesh and soul."