Beyond The Veil Ch. 01
Ten years ago . . . .
Flashlights danced along the damp limestone walls, making droplets of moisture glisten like tears from the earth. The aromas of mildew, pollen and the faint stench of some rotting animal all mingled in Kyle's senses as he followed Dr. Keller through the narrow passageway. Their French guide, Yvonne, lingered behind, standing near the rickety old Mercedes which had borne them through the foothills of the Pyrenees. He regarded the two scientists wanly as he lit a cigarette. Kyle was not sure if that look was annoyance or boredom.
"Careful where you step, young man," warned Keller in his gravelly voice. "Rocks everywhere."
Kyle nodded, although he knew his forward-facing mentor could not see him. "Don't worry, professor." He panned the flashlight back and forth, noting the numerous loose stones and pebbles that littered the skinny corridor. With each step, it seemed, the air grew at least five degrees cooler, and it had not been a warm day to begin with.
"Tight squeeze here," Keller commented, and Kyle watched the older man's silhouette ahead of him. The professor chuckled as he slid his chubby stomach through a space obviously intended for much slimmer folk. "I shouldn't have had that second pastry at breakfast."
"No problem for me," Kyle announced with a grin, stepping through the same space and barely feeling the scrape of stone through his heavy denim shirt.
Keller glanced back. "Gods, boy, you really need to eat more. You look like one of those ridiculously skinny cologne models."
Kyle shrugged. "Hey, I ate as much as you did," he said pointedly. "Sorry I was blessed with such a high metabolism."
"Well, wait until you're thirty, young man," Keller grumbled with a knowing smirk.
"I'll let you know in five years, then."
They continued on, following a steady downward slope. Both slipped now and then upon water-slicked rock, but neither fell; they had been delving into numerous such caves all summer.
"I think I see the chamber, boy!" Keller exclaimed excitedly after only a few more minutes. Kyle thought the way his mentor acted when possible discovery was imminent was amusing; it was as if forty or more years were instantly peeled off, leaving the young boy within the esteemed archaeologist exposed.
"Yay," drawled Kyle with a roll of his eyes. "Yet more ancient cave paintings and chipped rocks once used as tools. Y--"
He cut himself short as he emerged into a dome-like chamber encased in polished limestone, the walls of which seemed almost professionally worked to a uniform smoothness. Every inch of available wall space was covered in fanciful depictions of various animals and men and other symbols beside. Kyle had never seen anything so intricate at a neolithic site in his life.
"--ay . . . ."
Keller stood with his balled fists at his hips, smiling smugly as he looked all around. His gaze fell upon Kyle. "You were saying?"
"Uh . . . n-nothing," Kyle answered, chastened.
The older archaeologist laughed under his breath. "I won't hold it against you, Perrin," he said in a condescending way, then returned to his appraisal of the painted walls. "There's a mystery here, son. Something to be found. A missing link, perhaps, to borrow from Darwin." His face soured somewhat. "Even if that hoary old man was wrong."
Kyle grumbled in mild exasperation. "Yeah, a million scientists can't be right," he said off-handedly.
Keller turned to face his student, face grim and patronizing, like that of a disappointed father. "Science is--"
"'Science is a religion, not an absolute,'" Kyle interrupted. "'It requires faith, and like any religion, you must believe to seek the truth.'" He gave Keller a tired look. "So you've told me a hundred times."
"Yet you still don't believe it," he snipped.
Kyle looked apologetic. "Professor, you know I hold you in the highest regard. I've been blacklisted from half the research one institutes in the states because I follow you. It's just . . . ."
"It's hard to go against the establishment," Keller finished, and smiled reassuringly. "Trust me, I know. And the difficult thing is that I can't promise you I'm right. We both have to be prepared for the possibility that I might be as delusional as all my critics claim."
"But you don't think so."
Keller winked. "Of course not," he barked. "I'm as sure of myself as Jesus Christ."
"Please, let's not get started on that again," Kyle bemoaned.
The older professor laughed and shook his head. "No, we'll have that discussion over a bottle of cheap house wine at the hotel. For now . . . ." he returned his attention to the walls and unshouldered his leather pack. "For now, we look for that elusive missing piece of the puzzle . . . ."
*****
With brushes and tiny picks, under the radiance provided by a Coleman lantern, Kyle helped his mentor survey the cave paintings which dated back nearly a dozen millennia. They were far more intricate than those discovered in other French caves. But then, Kyle mused, they were about four thousand years younger than the art found near Lascaux.
"It's clearly a story," Keller announced, standing within the middle of the cave and reading the paintings like a great panoramic picture. "See there, it begins with the gods, or perhaps god-like beings . . . maybe the leaders of the Great Civilization. Then a scene of destruction. Earth turned to water, sky to fire. Man and beast and bird perish, leaving only a few to survive. A realization of the loss of knowledge . . . a return to savagery. Man becomes beast. This is a story, Kyle. A litany of woe. These people understood that something great had been lost. I can only imagine the sense of collective sorrow."
"Or maybe relief," Kyle offered, gaining the professor's instant attention. He read the older man's scornful look and continued, indicating a section of the painted wall beside him. "Well, look at this. Several figures standing around another, who looks like he's been stabbed to death with spears. Looks like he has the same basic headdress of the god-like figures. Then three faces with closed eyes and mouths. It's almost like, 'we killed him, and we're not going to say why.'"
Keller frowned, then approached the painted figures Kyle indicated. "Hmm. Perhaps. If there was some effort made to suppress what had once been known . . . there must have been a reason. Fear, perhaps?"
Kyle shrugged. "You've always been adamant about the cycle of civilization," he said. "How it forms, advances, reaches a pinnacle of some sort, then is destroyed by some kind of cataclysm. Maybe the survivors of the last cataclysm wanted to make sure it never happened again. And to do that--"
"They would suppress all knowledge of what had existed before," finished Keller thoughtfully. "You may have something there, Kyle."
The recently-graduated doctor beamed. "Really?"
Keller nodded, eyes darting along the walls. "Indeed. In fact, looking upon all this with that idea in mind, this seems less like a hall of records and more like . . . a warning. 'Do not tread the path taken before, for it leads only to destruction.'"
"We should get the camera, take pictures of these paintings while we can. We only have--" Kyle checked his watch. "-- another fifteen minutes."
Keller nodded. "Yes, you're right."
Eagerly, Kyle stepped to the two heavy leather satchels that lay beside the entrance to the domed room. As he knelt, opening one of the flaps, he heard scraping sounds from within the tunnel to the surface. Sounds very similar to that of booted feet upon slick rock. He stiffened immediately.
"Hello?"
His voice echoed both in the room and through the rough-hewn corridor. A single rock cracked and clattered down the slope toward him, finally coming to rest just within the radiance of the light.
"Someone there, Kyle?" Keller asked from behind him.
Hairs prickling the back of his neck, Kyle looked over his shoulder. "Could just have been a mountain goat or something."
"But you don't think so."
Kyle looked nervous. "Can't say I'm as sure of myself as Jesus Christ," he said.
Abruptly, the ground shook, accompanying a distant sound like a brief grunt of muffled thunder, and dust rained from the ceiling. Kyle maintained his position on his knees, but Keller stumbled back, falling against the wall.
"What the hell was that!" cried Kyle, wincing as dust fell into his eyes.
The earth beneath Keller roiled and listed like a ship upon the English Channel in winter. "Must be an earthquake!" yelled Keller as he struggled to take to his feet.
"In France?"
"Get the bags, boy!" commanded the older scientist, managing to get onto his hands and knees. "I'm right behind you!"
"Right!" Gathering the straps of both satchels in his right hand, Kyle lurched through the narrow opening, slipping upon wet rock and clutching in the dark for any handhold he could find. All around him, the tunnel seemed to writhe back and forth,a s if he was trying to climb up through the hungry gullet of a serpent. Pieces of stone pelted him, some large enough to make him grunt or gasp in pain. But still he continued, encouraged by the faint glow of daylight ahead and above.
Almost there, he thought desperately, clamoring over rocks which threatened to cut him down like bowling pins.
"Kyle!"
He stopped instantly, whirling around, trying to look back down the darkened tunnel. His senses caught a hint of something acrid, like sulfur, though his brain did not register it at the time. His attention was focused upon the fate of his mentor, the man who had all but been his father for the previous few years. "Professor!"
"Keep going, boy!" came Keller's pained voice. "If you come back, we'll both die!"
"I can't leave you, Max!" cried Kyle, hurling the two satchels toward the entrance of the cave. "I'm coming back!"
"Damn it, Kyle! Get your ass--"
But Professor Keller's statement would never be finished. Another, more loud and distinct raucous exploded around Kyle, making the world flip on its side. The narrow walls closed in on him amid a flurry of deadly debris. He was pummeled back against cold, clammy limestone, forced to close his eyes and mouth against a spray of rock and dirt. And then came the unbelievable pain, lancing through his right arm, as if someone had taken a mallet fresh from Vulcan's own forge and swung it against the limb.
His own scream of anguish was the last thing he heard.
*****
Now
The insistent beeping of his cellphone finally compelled Kyle to rise from bed. He sat up with a sigh, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. The apartment was cold, as was typical for an October morning in the city. It made for inspiring sleeping weather, but rising from bed was an almost traumatic event. Passing his hand over his face, Kyle glared at the offending device upon the belt of his jeans, which lay hanging over the back of the chair in his bedroom.
With an angry huff, he rose and stumbled toward the chair, snatching up the jeans and falling to his rump upon the unpadded wooden surface. He shook the phone free of its case and snapped it open. "Dr. Perrin," he growled.
"Sorry for the wake-up call, doctor," came an unfamiliar man's voice. "But I was told you're the one I should talk to."
Kyle frowned in annoyance, trying to ignore the itch he felt on his right arm. "Who is this?"
"Manuel Dacosta. Detective. Homicide."
The frown deepened upon Kyle's face. "Homicide?"
"Like I said, sorry about the hour, but I work the graveyard shift and I'm just about done. Can I buy you breakfast?"
Kyle shook his head in confusion, still lingering beneath the fog of his tumultuous sleep. "Uh, care to tell me what's going on?"
"It'd be better if I show you, doc. In person."
Kyle passed his tongue across pasty teeth. "Where did you have in mind?"
"How about Little Tony's? I think it's only a few blocks from your building."
"Um . . . yeah, okay. How am I going to know you?"
"Just tell Ginny you're looking for me. That's Dacosta. D-A-C-O-S-T-A."
"Sure. Give me, uh, twenty minutes."
"See you there."
Kyle flipped the phone closed and tossed it onto the bed. The itch was still there, but he made no move to scratch it. There was no need to, really, since the itch was a phantom sensation. After ten years, it still alternately annoyed and amazed Dr. Kyle Perrin that he continued to feel an arm that was no longer there. As if looking upon an unruly child, Kyle let his gaze fall upon the stump of his right arm, which lay just a few inches beneath his shoulder. The mass of darkened scar tissue almost seemed to glare back.
Shaking away the last few spiderwebs of a nightmare he had come to expect almost nightly, Kyle rose and turned toward the creaking door to his bathroom.
*****
Pea coat draped around his narrow shoulders, Kyle pushed open the door to the semi-crowded diner, inhaling the aromas of coffee, cigarettes and frying bacon. A few faces turned his way, belonging to tired city workers coming off an overnight shift, or from low-rung businessmen on their way to the office. Little Tony's saw almost every crowd. Kyle always found it an interesting place for people watching.
"Hey, doc," came the bubbly voice of Ginny, the middle-aged head waitress who still tried to act the part of the carefree cheerleader she had been some twenty or more years before. "Don't usually see you here this early."
Kyle managed a smile, slipping the aged fedora from his head. "Well, I woke up this morning and thought to myself, 'on such a cold day as this, I've just got to see Ginny's dazzling smile.'"
The dyed blonde woman scoffed and smacked her gum. "Bullshitter. I already know why you're here. C'mon."
Following the waitress' abundant butt, Kyle left the small hostess stand and allowed himself to be led along the expanse of the breakfast bar toward the fifth booth along the window in the diner. There sat a youngish-looking Hispanic man clad in a cheap suit beneath a grey overcoat, his cheeks showing a healthy growth of stubble. The man smiled professionally as Kyle sat.
"Dr. Perrin?"
Kyle offered his only hand, which the detective accepted hesitantly. "Detective Dacosta," he said, then glanced to Ginny.
She smacked her gum once more. "Coffee, large OJ, ham steak and two eggs sunny-side-up," she chirped with a wink. "You don't ever change, doc."
Kyle chuckled and looked back to the detective. "I'm a creature of habit," he explained simply. "So, what did you want to show me?"
Dacosta chuckled, reaching into his jacket. "Not one for wasting time, huh?" He produced a plastic bag and set it on the table between them. Even through the dimming layer of plastic, the two burnished coins within glimmered faintly. Their age was instantly noticeable.
"Not when I get awakened before seven in the morning," Kyle growled, reaching for the coins.
"Don't take them out. They're evidence."
Kyle nodded, smoothing the plastic over the two jagged discs. "So where'd you get my name?" he asked, peering closely at the coins.
"Horace Grimes," Dacosta said casually.
Kyle grunted musingly. "How's he handling retirement?"
"Doing a lot of fishing. He says hello, by the way."
Kyle was silent, studying the items before him. "Well, not much I can tell you about the coins," he said. "Probably a couple centuries old, worth maybe a few bucks to the right collector." He turned the coins over and frowned, looking more closely. "Hmm. Now, that's interesting."
"Yeah?" prompted the detective.
"Markings on the back," the scientist informed, pointing with his finger. "A triangle in a circle. Basic occult symbol."
"What's it mean?"
Kyle sat back and shrugged. "Any number of things," he said. "The triangle is one of the oldest elemental symbols. It usually implies a relationship between three different groups or objects. Some Middle Ages cultures believe symbols like this are used to enchant."
The detective looked befuddled. "So . . . this could be, like, a religious cult kind of thing?"
Kyle chuckled, saying nothing as Ginny returned with his orange juice and coffee. He took up a sugar packet from the caddy at the end of the table, opened it with his teeth and poured the contents into the cup. He did the same with a single-serve creamer and stirred his coffee, aware that Dacosta's eyes were following his moves. "Where did you find the coins?"
"With all due respect, doctor, you're a civilian--"
Kyle waved his hand dismissively. "Then I'll just have my breakfast and go," he said. "We can talk about the weather."
Dacosta soured. "Look, I'll be honest: I'm not too crazy about all this, but I don't know any other occultists."
Kyle's face darkened. "Let's get something straight, detective," he said. "I'm not an occultist. I'm an anthropologist. I just happen to have a wide variety of interests."
The detective looked confused. "I was told you're an expert on unusual things."
"I am," Kyle confirmed. "I study people and things, especially from the past. But, taken out of context, I can't really give you too much information about, say, a pair of old coins, without knowing where they were found. About all I can tell you is that they have some value, are engraved with an elemental symbol, but other than that, nada. So, you want me to help you, you gotta give me a little more to work on."
Dacosta looked uncomfortable, mulling over his options. Kyle sipped his coffee silently, once more ignoring an itch along his non-existent arm.
"Okay," the detective acquiesced at last. "They were found in the eye sockets of a corpse."
Kyle arched an eyebrow and glanced briefly to the coins once more. "Really."
"Yeah. Does that help?"
Kyle shrugged. "Maybe. The Greeks and Romans believed in covering the eyes of the deceased with coins, so that the dead could pay Charon, the ferryman of the River Styx, on their way to the land of the dead."
The detective blinked, thinking. "But these coins were inside the eye sockets."
"I take it the corpse wasn't fresh."
"Um, no," Dacosta affirmed. "Have to wait for the coroner's findings, but I figure the body's been dead for a while."
Kyle nodded thoughtfully. "Can you tell me where the body was found?"
Dacosta was hesitant a moment before he answered. "A warehouse downtown."
"Anything else?"
The detective sucked a tooth in contemplation. "Yeah. Apparently, someone was using the body for target practice."
Kyle studied Dacosta's face, observing the struggle in the man's features. "Something else you wanna tell me?"
The detective pushed back from the edge of the table and regarded Kyle with perturbed resignation. "You know, if Grimes hadn't told me about you, I wouldn't even consider saying what I'm about to say."
Kyle rested his gaze upon the detective's. "Which is?"
Dacosta huffed, obviously uncomfortable with the information he was about to share, and its implications. "Somebody trussed up the body," he said. "Shot it full of holes, then stabbed a knife through its' skull. Pretty sick stuff."
"I've heard of worse," said Kyle.
Dacosta stared for a long moment, his expression inscrutable. "You wanna see the body?"
Kyle nodded. "I wanna see the body."
*****
To what a strange life I've been lead, to read the secrets of the dead, Kyle waxed as he and Dacosta strode beneath flickering fluorescent lighting toward the basement offices of the Medical Examiner. The chief was someone Kyle knew only casually; on those occasions in which he had worked with Grimes, visits to the ME had been almost regular. He would not consider the chief a friend, but neither were they strangers.
"Dr. Perrin?" came the quizzical voice of the doughty, middle-aged woman as the duo entered the main lab. She was perched over the partially-exposed corpse of a rather large woman, watching Kyle above the rim of brass-framed spectacles. "Been a while since you've been down here."
Kyle shrugged. "Been a while since I've been invited. Nice to see you, Kat."
Katherine Wasserstrom smiled mirthlessly. "Open house is on the first of every month," she said with friendly sarcasm.
"I'll remember that," he said with a thin smile.
"Well, I guess introductions aren't needed," Dacosta mused.
"No," agreed Dr. Wasserstrom as she straightened. "Neither do you need to tell me why you've brought Dr. Perrin." Without direction, she headed around the slab upon which lay her obese specimen and approached the row of heavy steel doors along the wall. She jerked one of them open and pulled out the slab, upon which lay a white sheet draped over an obviously dessicated body. With neither warning nor finesse, she flipped the sheet down.
Dacosta grunted in discomfort upon seeing the corpse, while Kyle merely raised an intrigued brow. What he saw struck him with the same sense of morbid wonder as looking upon an exhibit at the Ripley museum.
"Gentlemen, Mr. John Doe," she announced. "Until between three and five weeks ago, a living, breathing human being."
Dacosta looked impressed. "No luck establishing his identity?"
Wasserstrom shrugged. "I made a dental cast," she explained simply. She nodded toward the detective. "The fingers were too dessicated to lift any viable prints. I'll email you my report as soon as I'm done. Figured you'd be home asleep by now."
Dacosta stifled a yawn, the chief ME's comment having reminded him of how long he had been awake. "Should be."
"I'd like a copy of that report," Kyle said, leaning over the body. The black man's skin was pale and leathery, having taken on a blotchy grey tone in death. All of the fatty tissue had shrunken almost to nothing, resulting in a manic grin with only the hint of a shriveled, dry tongue beyond parched yellow teeth. The eyes were little more than dessicated cavities, with a narrow, wedge-shaped hole between and just above them about an inch long.
The torso was equally emaciated, ribs outlined by the stretched, leathery skin. A trio of dark holes, looking to be half an inch across, formed a neat triangle in the center of the chest, each framed by tattered scraps of dead flesh and bone fragments.
"Can't tell you how he died originally," Wasserstrom said. "Not yet, anyway. All injuries were inflicted post-mortem, and within the last twenty-four hours. The bullet wounds are consistent with .45 caliber rounds, but without vascular tissue and organs to provide a bullet stop, they tore right through. The exit wounds are, naturally, pretty small."
"Why the hell would someone shoot an already dead body?" Dacosta wondered aloud, watching Kyle from the corner of his eye.
"Beats me," muttered the anthropologist.
"I can tell you a few things," informed the chief. "The trajectory and angle of the bullet wounds suggests the body was propped upright when it was shot. The stab wound through the skull, however--" she tapped the dead body's head. "-- happened when the body was lying prone."
Kyle frowned. "So someone propped up the body, shot it until it fell down, then stabbed it in the head?"
Wasserstrom rolled her shoulders. "I just read the evidence," she said. "The only thing is, if the body had been propped up somehow, it would have had to have been supported. Leaned against a wall, maybe. But a body like this, drained of fluid, long past the effects of rigor mortis, would have collapsed if stood up. It would have needed support of some kind. Tying it to a pole, or hanging it upright. If anything like that had been done, it would have left obvious marks in the skin. The flesh is still just elastic enough to bear such marks."
Kyle met the ME's eyes. "Let me guess: there aren't any."
She smiled like a proud teacher upon her favorite pet student. "Bingo."
"So they stood it up just long enough to plug a few holes in it," Dacosta said. "Anybody good with a gun could snap off three rounds before it fell."
Wasserstrom screwed up her face in skeptical contemplation. "Maybe."
"What's the alternative?" asked Kyle baitingly. "That a corpse dead for at least three weeks was standing on its own before someone shot it three times, knocking it down, then shoved a knife through the skull?"
Dacosta shivered noticeably. "It's fuckin' creepy either way."
"No doubt about that," Wasserstrom agreed. "Oh, as far as the knife wound . . . it was made by a Jereboam Mark I combat knife. Very unique profile."
Dacosta took out his PDA and made a note. Kyle watched him with amusement. Grimes had always used a simple notebook and pen. Different generations, different styles.
"What about his personal effects?" Kyle asked.
"Ah," responded the chief ME with a hint of interest in her voice. She reached beyond the corpse's feet and extracted a small cardboard box. Setting it upon the body's chest, she lifted the lid, letting loose a noxious cloud of invisible fumes which had both men gagging. "Standard issue homeless uniform," She held up a tattered grey shirt with red fringe, showing the holes in the center of the button-down garment's front. "No ID, nothing at all to indicate who this guys was. Plus . . . here. Take a whiff."
Kyle frowned, then leaned in, expecting to smell the odor of decay. Instead, he smelled something caustic, bitter . . . "Kerosene?" he asked probingly.
Wasserstrom nodded with a knowing grin. "Somebody wanted to burn the body."
"But they were interrupted," Kyle added, his own smile slowly growing.
Dacosta's eyes darted back and forth between the two. "Either of you wanna tell me what's going on?"
Kyle took a deep breath. "Wish I could."
*****
Stepping off the bus, Kyle huddled against the chilly weather, clutching the pea coat closed beneath his neck with his only hand. He winced at the ache which squeezed the stump of his amputated arm, telling him a stronger cold front was moving in.
Having spent the day at the city library left him feeling sore and tired. Doing research was as exhausting as an hour's intense workout, though for different reasons. The stress was behind the eyes, in the back of the brain, in the stiffening of limbs and neck muscles. Rising from a chair after eight hours of uninterrupted reading resulted in a multitude of creaks, cracks, and snaps. It had taken Kyle more than a handful of seconds to walk fluidly.
His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, conjectures, theories and fanciful notions. Looking into the public literature regarding disturbing the dead, he had discovered more than he could absorb in a single day. Necromancy, coprophilia, necrophilia . . . morbidly fascinating, but little of what he had read provided any clues as to why anyone would use a human corpse as a combat dummy, and what clues he had discerned had lead him toward the fringe paths of new age sorcery and ancient rituals. Nothing, in other words, which shed any light upon the case at hand.
Passing beneath the glowing neon sign of Rudy's Bar, Kyle paused, chancing a look through the broad front window. The majority of the watering hole's patrons were little more than faceless blurs to him, but she stood out. Seated alone along the tarnished rail of the bar, yet framed by men who deigned to earn her attention. In profile, her professionally bored face was beautiful, mitigated by the basic annoyance of plying her trade. She sipped from a martini – Absolut, dirty, three olives, Kyle knew – and tapped a cigarette over a black plastic ashtray.
Kyle hesitated, looking down at the cracked wet pavement which, with less than two hundred steps, would bear him to his building. He knew he should have continued, leaving the bar behind. But the chance to divert his attention, if only for a few hours, was alluring. He could not resist.
The old bell above the door chimed as he pushed through it, gaining a few glances his way. Among those was that of the young woman at the bar, whose lips stretched with the barest hint of a genuine smile. He could not help but smile back as he took a seat at the nearest corner of the bar. He took out his cigarette case, making it flap open as he depressed the button on the side. He tucked a filtered Camel between his lips, fished out his lighter, inhaled smoke as the tip burned and crackled.
"What can I get for you, buddy?"
Kyle briefly acknowledged the bartender. His was a new face. "Glenlivet on the rocks," he said. "And let the blonde in the blue dress know her next drink's on me."
"Sure," the man said. "But, uh, just so you know, she's a professional, if you--"
Kyle fixed him a look. "Her next drink's on me," he repeated firmly.
The bartender nodded mutely and retreated to tend to Kyle's requests. Kyle's eyes drifted to the blonde, who faked a few laughs as the two men flanking her – businessmen by the looks of them – competed for her attentions. She managed to cast a demure, almost challenging look Kyle's way as she patronized her would-be beaus.
But a few moments after Kyle's Scotch was set before him, the bartender beckoned the blonde's ear and whispered a few brief words. She actually blushed, and nodded. Draining the last of her martini, she slipped from her stool without so much as a parting word to the men framing her, and approached Kyle at the end of the bar.
"Thought I'd never see you again, after last time," she said in a breathy voice.
Kyle worked his lips, suppressing a nervous smile. "I'll be honest," he said. "I figured I'd never see you again, too, Gina."
She took the stool beside him and shook a cigarette from her pack. Kyle watched her light up. "Yet, here you are."
He nodded. "Yeah. Here I am."
Her eyes smoldered above the glowing cherry of the cigarette. "Wanna fuck?"
Kyle chuckled. "Can I finish my drink first?"
She grinned. "Sure."
*****
Having only one arm was not so much of a detriment during sex, Kyle had discovered during the previous decade. The maneuvering of bodies, the functions of leverage . . . the loss of an arm ultimately had little impact upon his prowess in bed. But it did effect the means of getting a woman into bed, which was why, more often than not, Kyle turned to women such as Gina.
If there was ever a good moral excuse for the existence of prostitutes, Kyle figured, it was men like him. Prostitutes were more willing to look past a deformity or amputation, simply because they were paid to do so. Most other women, Kyle had come to find, either made his loss of an arm a reason to overcompensate in their affections, or were unnerved by it. Either situation was ultimately annoying. Gina, at least, never made Kyle think she considered it any kind of problem. She always seemed happy to do her job and be off with a coy smile and a soft glow that the lonely academician liked to think was genuine.
He stared down upon her as she was propped up on her hands and knees, blonde hair darkened at the nape of her neck by sweat. Her slender back shone due to sexual exertion, muscles standing out beneath the imperfect flesh. The ripe aroma of her pussy wafted through Kyle's senses as he thrust into her again and again, feeling the rippling, squeezing contractions of her inner muscles. Every deep thrust had his balls smacking stickily against her clitoris. Gina grunted and gasped, emitting a short cry now and then as she pushed back against him. She loved being fucked from behind.
He gripped her waist with one hand, feeling the movement of muscles against his hand. He was both blessed and cursed with staying power; though his lovers enjoyed it, there inevitably came a point when his desire to satisfy his lover became replaced by the basic selfish need to get off. After a solid half-hour, he was now at that point. But still not close enough to orgasm.
Gina hissed, slapping a hand back to stop his relentless pounding. Her vagina sucked desperately along his shaft, exuding almost enough heat, it felt to Kyle, to burn through the latex barrier between them. "St-stop," she panted, hanging her head. She sagged on the bed, shoulders falling to the mattress. Kyle took deep breaths, wiping his brow as he remained buried within her. He chuckled under his breath at the young woman's glistening, dark pink sphincter above his vanished cock.
"What's . . . so funny?" she panted, drawing her hair languidly across the side of her face.
Kyle shook his head. "I get some weird thoughts sometimes," he said.
Gina laughed back breathlessly. "Like I don't know that already." She pushed back up on her hands, but made no effort to disengage herself from their union. "So what were you thinking?"
He shrugged. "Your asshole was winking at me."
The prostitute sputtered in laughter, which made her vaginal muscles squeeze and massage his still-hard cock. The laughter faded, and she gave him a sultry look. "Wanna do me there?" she asked coquettishly. "I'd let you."
He arched an eyebrow. "Maybe next time," he said, finally and reluctantly pulling out. The condom was bunched up halfway down the length of his erection, leaving streaks of whitish fluid that disappeared into his pubic hair.
Gina looked unperturbed as Kyle fell onto the bed beside her. She eyed his penis speculatively, noting its fully-engorged status. "You didn't come," she observed.
He managed a smile, reaching out to touch her girlish face. Gina may have been working as a prostitute for years, but she still had a way of looking like the demure teenager she had been when she had first stepped foot on the streets. "If we could have kept it up a little longer, maybe," he said.
She grinned knowingly, smoothing her hair back. "Don't worry, baby, I know how to get you off," she declared confidently, maneuvering on her knees beside him, leaning over to lick around the base of his distended cock. With the caressing passes of her tongue distracting him, she slowly peeled off the condom with her fingers, licking exposed skin until her tongue finally swirled wetly around the head of Kyle's manhood.
He sighed in pleasure, stretching out on his back as the hooker took him all the way into her mouth, past the opening of her throat. Wrapped in snug, sucking, massaging heat, feeling her throat swallowing around the head of his cock, Kyle shuddered, reflexively pushing up with his hips. But Gina had her hands on his hips now, controlling how much she devoured.
"Christ, I fucking love it when you do that," Kyle murmured, petting her sweat-dampened hair.
She slipped her mouth up until only half his length was throbbing between her lips. "Mm-hmm," she mumbled. Her tongue stroked firmly against one side of his shaft, pushing the other against the ribbed roof of her mouth. The back of her front teeth rubbed just beneath the crown of his cock as she bobbed up and down, making Kyle squirm. He winced as he endured the sensations for as long as he could.
But Gina knew him well, and stopped just before he was about to lift his hand to stop her. Keeping her mouth wrapped tightly around just the head of his penis, she moved about until she was straddling Kyle's legs and looking up at his impassioned face. Their eyes locked; she grinned around the glistening tip, letting a little drool escape her lips and drip down the shaft. One of her hands came up and wrapped around his length, squeezing and stroking slowly, firmly. This, she knew, he also enjoyed.
"Do it, baby," Kyle encouraged, voice hoarse and cracking. "Make me come."
Gina giggled softly, the sound tinkling in the air before she cupped her open mouth around the straining, purplish-pink head of Kyle's cock. Her strokes became firmer, faster, and her lips made wet popping sounds. Kyle grunted, his body tensing. The rush of pleasure did not take long under the prostitute's skillful manipulation.
"Gina!" he cried, arching his back, feeling the beginnings of the impending eruption.
Her answer was an excited series of gasps, tongue lashing around the sensitive head.
Kyle gasped and spasmed when he came, ejaculating wildly into and around Gina's mouth. Upon tasting his warm seed, Gina slowed her strokes and squeezed even harder, forcing every bit of gritty fluid up through the vibrating tube of flesh. She laughed softly, feeling the wet weight of semen upon her cheeks and lips, tasting it as it slid to the back of her throat. With a proud rumble, she encased his cock in soothing, sucking flesh, drawing out every drop of her lover's seed.
Kyle mumbled incoherently in the afterglow of his pleasure, lazily stroking Gina's head. The prostitute settled her weight comfortably upon his legs, suckling the softening length of flesh in her mouth. The aroma of semen was palpable, a sensory affirmation of her accomplishment.
Finally, she lifted her head and released him, crawling up to look down upon Kyle's beleaguered face. He chuckled dreamily, touching a glimmering trail of creamy fluid across her upper lip. More clung to her chin. "Told ya," she said with girlish assuredness.
"Yes . . . you did," he panted, then pulled her down atop him. Gina settled herself upon his chest, murmuring affectionately. Kyle petted her back, feeling her heartbeat against his chest. After only a few minutes – before the cuddling went beyond shared afterglow and into the realm of more serious affection – Gina pushed up, sitting beside Kyle in bed and smiling.
"I'm glad you came in tonight," she said after a moment.
He slid his arm beneath his head, watching the comely blonde as she casually wiped residue from her chin and sucked her finger clean. "Oh, really?"
"Yeah," she answered casually. "You saved me from those businessmen."
He arched an eyebrow. Gina was not the only prostitute Kyle had known, but she was the only one who openly spoke about her profession. "Seemed like they were pretty interested in you."
"Well, no shit, Sherlock," she quipped with a wry look. "Hell, I probably could'a had 'em both. But I know their type."
The anthropologist in him could not resist taking the bait. "What type is that?"
Gina sighed, picking at a stray blonde hair that had fallen to her chest. "Fortyish, married, away from home, maybe gets it twice a month from the wife," she said. "We'd have maybe half an hour of fun, and then I'd be his frickin' therapist. Tell me all about what a great father he is and how much he loves his wife, and 'oh, if only she'd fuck me like you did.'" She rolled her eyes for effect, then smiled again, running her hand along Kyle's thigh. "But you're different."
"Yeah," he groaned, sitting up and facing away, letting his feet drop to the floor at the edge of the bed. "Not married, and no kids."
"That really bothers you," she commented after a long pause between them.
He looked for his pants, laying on the floor, and quickly dug out the cigarette case and lighter. "Sometimes," he said, then lit up. Wordlessly, he handed her one of his smokes and the lighter.
"Is that why you said . . . what you said last time?"
Kyle stared at the shadows on the wall as the air grew thick with smoke. "I'd had a few drinks," he explained unconvincingly. "A man's liable to say all sorts of things when he's drunk."
The lighter rang, then clicked behind him. He heard Gina exhale, and could all but feel the gentle burn of her gaze upon his back. "Yeah."
A brief softness invaded his heart, and Kyle glanced to her over his shoulder. "It wouldn't work, you know."
Her eyes dipped, and she shrugged sheepishly. "Probably not."
*****
The package arrived by certified courier, a simple padded manila envelope within which was a small box and a handwritten note from Detective Dacosta. "I'd appreciate anything you could find out about them. The department will reimburse you for thirty hours of work. Just make sure I get them back within a week." The note included Dacosta's cellphone number and email address.
The box contained the same pair of coins which had been pried from the eye sockets of the security guard-dressed corpse. There was a faint odor about them that was both musty and rancid; age combined with the scent of the dead. Without an intervening layer of plastic, Kyle was able to examine them more closely. He deduced that the triangle/circle design had been engraved with a small and very sharp knife, probably an Exacto blade or something similar. In addition, the lines of the triangle perfectly dissected the neck of the head stamped into the metal, with the other arms just barely skirting the edges of the woman's hair and the tip of her nose.
As if making sure the entirety of the head was included, Kyle thought wonderingly. Does that mean something?
After turning over the coins for a few minutes, he got online and began looking up rare coin dealers in the area. He was surprised to find more than a handful in the city. Rare coins, apparently, were more common than he thought.
Okay, let's start with 'A,' Kyle thought, taking up his phone.
*****
The building was a corner brownstone hailing from the Victorian era, built with the intention of hosting shops on the ground floor and apartments above. There were numerous such buildings across the area of downtown to which Kyle had come. This one, in particular, felt right at home beneath the overcast sky and whirling winds.
It was late in the afternoon when Kyle walked through the creaking wooden door of the antiques shop known as Curious Curios. The scent of age was heavy in the air; not an inch of space seemed to have been wasted in the endeavor to showcase a wide variety of antiques in numerous display cases. There were Civil War era uniforms and weapons, hand-blown glass decanters and vases, a variety of furniture, and vintage clothing dating back to the time of Fay Wray.
Gentle music drifted out from hidden speakers, a jazz tune straight from the era of flappers and zoot suits. The haunting melody was right at home with the wares on display. Feeling the weight of the coins in his coat pocket, Kyle wandered through the aisles, peripherally glancing about for the shop's owner or an employee.
"Mr. Tillby?"
A door toward the back of the small shop opened, then closed. Footprints, light and telling of leather shoes, shuffled across the waxed floor. Kyle looked toward the sound, waiting for the man to appear. He was slightly shorter than the anthropologist and dressed in an inexpensive suit of classic tweed. His features were thick and round, the face friendly above a round body that evoked comparisons with W.C. Fields.
"Good afternoon, sir," the man said in an amiable voice, tinted with an English accent. "Wayland Tillby. May I assume you are the gentleman I spoke with over the tele?"
Kyle smiled in return. "That would be me," he confirmed, then indicated the store with a wave of his arm. "Nice place you've got here. You have a lot of interests."
"On the contrary. I am only interested in that which is old and unusual."
"Broad field."
"Quite," agreed Tillby. His eyes wandered briefly to the loose, dangling right sleeve of Kyle's coat, but he said nothing of it. Instead, he turned his attention to the reason for his visitor's arrival. "May I see the coins?"
Kyle produced the burnished discs, setting them face-down upon the counter. Tillby was quick with a pair of spectacles, perching them upon the end of his bulbous nose before taking up the two coins. He rubbed them together, thick lips pursed in contemplation. "Hmm, yes, these are the ones," he muttered. "Eighteenth century British pennies. Not terribly valuable, but something of a curiosity because of the error in minting."
"Oh?" prompted Kyle.
"There is no minting date," the collector explained. "That makes these coins easy to duplicate, which accounts for their diminished value. But a good collector or numismatist can tell the difference rather easily."
"How so?"
"Copper," Tillby said simply. "Most coins are a mix of metals. These, however, are almost pure copper. Unmarred, as these were when I initially sold them, they are worth about three American dollars each."
"Do you remember who you sold them to?"
"I have a ledger, Dr. Perrin, if you would follow me," he said, turning toward the rear of the store. But he paused amid an afterthought and looked warily back at the anthropologist. "You know, it is highly unusual for me to share the details of my ledger with anyone. I pride myself on propriety."
"Mr. Tillby, if you'd like to call Detective Dacosta, I'm sure he would be willing to verify that I am working on his behalf."
The round little man worked his thick lips a moment, then shook his head with a waddle of fleshy jowls. "I suppose that would not be necessary." Without another word, he lead Kyle toward a series of display cases toward the rear, most of which showcased glass shelves upon which were arranged hundreds of various coins, many individually sealed in plastic, others sitting open within small cardboard cases.
Stepping around behind the lowest of the cases, Tillby reached beneath and took out a leather-bound book with aged pages. He turned to the page marked by a red ribbon, then flipped back. "Oh, yes," he said at last. "A Mr. Alan Darness purchased four dozen sets of the coins. All I had, actually. I made him a deal for an even two hundred dollars. Glad to be rid of them, in fact, especially now."
Kyle cocked his head quizzically. "Why's that?"
Tillby removed his spectacles and snapped the book closed. "Because of the very reason you are here, Dr. Perrin. I have been in the collecting business for over thirty years. I've come to understand that certain things sometimes attract a distasteful clientèle."
"I assume you're talking about the symbol engraved on the coins," Kyle intuited.
Tillby sighed. "As I said, the coins were unmarred when I sold them. I can only imagine what ridiculous modern pagan ritual they were used in, which compelled someone to engrave them so. Probably something involving small animals and disturbing the peace, I'd wager."
"Actually, the crime was a bit more grave than that," Kyle said. "But I really shouldn't share any details."
Tillby made a sour face. "Better that you don't."
Kyle made an effort to appear casual. "I don't suppose you have an address on this Darness guy?"
"Actually, yes," Tillby said distastefully. "Let me fetch a slip of paper . . . ."
*****
"Detective. Kyle Perrin. I found a lead on your coins. They were purchased by a man named Alan Darness, who apparently bought almost a hundred of the same coins from a collector. I emailed you his address. Let me know if you need anything else."
Kyle snapped his phone closed and tossed it aside on the couch in his living room. He stared blandly at the television for a moment, anticipating yet another boring night of banal programming. His computer beckoned with the pleas of numerous unfinished books and other projects, not that he enjoyed much of an audience for his work except amongst the lunatic fringe. Even Graham Hancock rarely answered his correspondence.
Speaking of email . . . .
The laptop sitting open on his desk beckoned, swirling with a random pattern of colored lights. A tap on the mouse pad brought up the wallpaper image of a surreal, post-apocalyptic landscape from some future battle between man and alien. Kyle liked the picture because it reminded him of the cycle of civilization according to his and his former mentor's theories.
He cycled through the list of emails, many from what few fans of his work he enjoyed. Others were from academic colleagues, one from his father – the usual forwarded email chain letter – and one from Dr. Wasserstrom from the ME's office. Kyle grinned as he clicked on it, and read the report quickly.
". . . tissue and organs show signs of pre-mortem bleeding, suggestive of inhibition of vitamin K recycling. Likely cause of death: internal hemorrhaging brought on by ingestion of a vitamin K inhibitor, such as rodenticide."
Kyle leaned back in contemplation. So . . . he was poisoned to death, then someone held onto the body for a few weeks before finally shooting and stabbing it? What kind of necromantic crap is this?
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Turn it off, Kyle. You shouldn't even be reading coroner's reports anyway. Dacosta's the detective, not you.
He rose, absently reaching to the stump of his right arm beneath the shirt's short sleeve, scratching at hard, gnarled scar tissue. The kitchen was tiny, barely room enough for the appliances which inhabited it. The door of the refrigerator nearly hit the stove across when Kyle opened it, reaching in for a bottle of cold Paulaner Hefe-Weissen. He popped the top by means of a wall-mounted bottle opener and poured the golden, unfiltered liquid into a glass from his cupboard. Taking the beer back to the living room, he retook his seat upon the couch, facing the TV. It flickered on with a touch of the remote. Kyle sipped, watching the listing of shows as it scrolled slowly on the screen.
Seven o'clock and not a damn thing on, he mused sourly. His eyes flickered briefly to the pair of aged coins laying atop his coffee table.
Sip.
Should probably get some work done. That new information about Mesa Verde is promising.
Sip.
Hmm. New episode of 'Jurassic Fight Club.' That's always interesting.
Sip.
All right, fine. I'll call Gina . . . .
*****
Upon the street below Kyle Perrin's apartment, a pair of hardened eyes watched the attractive blonde woman as she ascended the stairs of the building. Despite the cold, she wore a short, tight black mini beneath a leather jacket and thigh-high boots that were more for show than function. Given her attire and the fact that she arrived by taxi, there was little mistaking her profession.
The owner of the eyes, a stocky, bald-headed man with strong Hispanic features, turned away from the disappearing blonde. He chewed on a toothpick and grumbled under his breath, hands tucked into the pockets of faded and scuffed blue jeans beneath an aged leather jacket. Striking along the street from the building, he kept his gaze trained ahead while his peripheral vision scanned his surroundings.
A block up the street, he marched to a large black Monte Carlo sedan which looked as if it recently rolled off the assembly line from 1975. Even in the darkness, with clouds overhead to obscure the moon and trees to block the street lights, the glossy paint glistened and chrome gleamed. As he approached the classic vehicle, the man took a cell phone from within his pocket and pressed a button.
"Cortes," he said by way of introduction once the other end was picked up. "Let me talk to Malcolm."
He pulled open the door as he waited on the line, and slid onto cool black vinyl. Automatically, he slipped the key into the ignition beside the steering column, but did not turn it. Patiently, he held the phone against his ear.
"Anything interesting to report, Victor?" came the deep voice from the other end.
Victor Cortes soured, shifting the toothpick around with his tongue. "All quiet on the western front," he growled. "Looks like Perrin's packing it in for the night."
"No signs of activity?"
"Not if you don't count the hooker."
A disapproving rumble sounded from the other end. "We don't need any witnesses."
Victor frowned. "I sure hope you ain't suggesting that I--"
"Of course not. I simply have a feeling."
Victor rolled his eyes. "Don't you always?"
"Often," corrected the owner of the commanding voice. "And, if you'd bother to think about it, I've thus far never been wrong."
"Right. Sure. So, lemme guess: I'm gonna hang out and stare at a dead street all night."
"I wouldn't say all night."
"Of course you wouldn't."
An amused chuckle filtered from the other end. "If anything happens, use your best judgment. But phone me again if there are any interesting developments."
Victor shrugged. "I ain't exactly holding my breath."
"Better that you don't. An unconscious sentry is no sentry at all."
"Smartass." Victor clipped the device closed and eased back in his seat. He thought for a moment, then lifted his hand to switch on the CD player mounted beneath the dash, eliciting the haunting voice of Sarah Brightman. Might as well pass the time, he thought.
*****
Only with Gina could Kyle be as forward and blatant as to wait upon the living room couch naked and sipping a beer. He was already erect in anticipation of the delights his lover would bring him. And only Gina, alone amongst all the women Kyle had known, found forward and blatant to be a turn-on.
The lights were off except for the flickering television. When the knock came, Kyle did not budge. He merely waited. After a few seconds, the lock turned and the door opened. Kyle heard it close behind him. His cock twitched.
Cool, but soft, hands slid down his torso from behind, fine-boned fingers lightly scratching his skin. The aroma of her perfume drifted around him like a cloud of seduction. Gina's breath was warm, her lips moist as they brushed his ear.
"I'm guessing you didn't call me because you wanted to play Scrabble," she whispered.
Kyle chuckled. "Maybe after," he said.
Gina laughed softly through her girlish nose, then kissed Kyle's ear before stepping around the couch to stand before him. Her expression was a mixture of amusement, sultriness, and arousal. "Twice in one week, baby," she commented, letting the leather jacket slip from her shoulders and fall to the floor. "Enough to make a girl wonder."
Kyle cleared his throat, watching as Gina reached under her tiny skirt and shimmied a tiny black thong down her lean legs. "Well, um . . ." Words faltered as she pushed her skirt up to her waist, brazenly exposing her sex. Perhaps it was the light, or maybe wishful thinking, but she certainly looked slick with arousal.
She giggled softly, straddling him. The heat of her pussy settled comfortably upon the underside of Kyle's cock. "Don't worry, honey, I won't get the wrong idea," she murmured, soft blonde hair falling about both their faces. "You wanna fuck, and so do I."
He looked up to her face, her beautiful face with the soft green eyes and button nose, the catlike lips and eternally pronounced cheekbones. The only thing Kyle didn't find attractive about Gina was her profession, despite the fact that were it not for that, she would not have been there.
"You know, sometimes, I wish I could afford to keep you," Kyle whispered.
She bit her lip, sliding back and forth, bathing Kyle's cock in the sweet warm emulsion leaking from her pussy. "Well," she said, moving up just so, allowing the lips of her labia to spread around the head of Kyle's penis. Like a hand, they seemed to take hold of his cock and line it up with the entrance to her sex. "Maybe we can talk about something like that later."
A moment's anxiety coursed through Kyle's mind, caused both by Gina's words and the fact that she was impaling herself upon his naked shaft. "Baby," he muttered quickly. "I don't have a condom on--"
"Shh," she hushed him, pressing wet lips against his. "It's okay."
Kyle's resolve – such as it was – vanished as her pussy sucked him in, pulling and tugging on his cock with expert finesse. All fear of unprotected sex with a prostitute, even one as choosy as Gina, evaporated from Kyle's mind as she leaned back, her hands upon his knees, to afford him the stark, tantalizing view of his cock sliding in and out of succulent pink flesh.
*****
Kyle was just popping the top off a pair of beers when the doorbell rang. Ah, pizza! he thought, leaving the beer on the counter. He grabbed the twenty-dollar bill he had set aside on the breakfast bar near the door and pulled the portal open. His attention was immediately focused on the large padded bag the man carried, and not the man himself who stood on the doorstep. Eagerly, he offered the twenty . . . and stopped.
The figure before him had once been a man, that much was obvious in the shape of the creature's face and the cut of its dry, wiry hair. But what should have been living skin was instead dry and dark, like thin cured leather. What should have been lips were shriveled masses of purple tissue framing stained, cracked teeth. And what should have been eyes were instead dimly glittering copper coins.
"Jesus!" exclaimed Kyle, scuffling back quickly. The twenty-dollar bill fell to the floor before the abomination's advance.
With a hollow-sounding emission that was like wind passing through a fissure in a graveyard, the figure marched forward, tossing the pizza bag aside. Kyle stared with a mixture of horror and fascination, wondering if what he saw was real, while at the same time making instant connections with what he had seen in the morgue just days before.
Reacting quickly, Kyle dove out of the way of the monster, reaching for the first weapon of opportunity he could – a standing lamp with a six-foot pole, atop which was an inverted dome that housed the bulb. Tucking the pole beneath his arm, he whirled about and faced the creature, which lumbered clumsily, hands balled into fists at its sides.
A loud gasp sounded from the bedroom doorway, making the monster hesitate and Kyle to glance back. Clad only in a towel, arms and legs glistening from her recent shower, Gina stared in abject shock at the scene before her. "Who the fuck is that?"
Kyle said nothing, deciding instead to take advantage of the walking corpse's apparent confusion. Valiantly, he charged forward, aiming the lamp pole like a makeshift lance. Both the glass bowl and light bulb shattered against the creature's chest, and the pole itself bit into rancid, dry, decayed flesh.
The monster barely staggered on its feet, grumbling. It reached up to the pole, ripping it free and jerking it from Kyle's grip. It lashed out with a powerful punch that sent Kyle stumbling backward, against the back of his couch. Stunned, Kyle touched his nose and pulled back fingers smeared with blood. The metallic aroma filled his senses.
A glass punch bowl filled with matchbooks collected from dozens of bars and restaurants sailed through the air, crashing against the monster's left shoulder. "Leave him alone!" shrieked Gina, forgetting her towel. It lay on the ground behind her as the naked young woman looked for another impromptu missile.
The monster bellowed again, making them both wince. But Kyle was determined not to go down without a fight. Desperately, he took a step and threw his weight into a single punch, which cracked against hard, dry skin and stony teeth. The monster paused, dead lips twitching. A single tooth fell from its mouth to the floor. It grumbled menacingly.
"Yeah, fuck you, too," snarled Kyle.
In response, his attacker raised both pummeling fists and bellowed once more.
"Kyle!" cried Gina.
Oh shit, here it comes, Kyle thought briefly.
Thoomp!
The sound barely registered in Kyle's mind. He was more focused upon the sudden explosion of dead tissue and bone just beneath and to the left of the base of the monster's neck . . . and the faint sensation of something shooting past his head.
Briefly, his eyes darted past the monster, seeing a stocky bald man clad in jeans and a leather jacket in the doorway, a pistol held in outstretched hand sporting a thick, heavy black barrel.
"Get on the fucking floor!"
Kyle didn't think; he fell instantly to the hardwood floor, as the monster turned about to face the newcomer.
Thoomp! Thoomp! Thoomp! Thoomp!
The strange sounds, Kyle realized, were the muffled explosions of the pistol the man used which was equipped, ostensibly, with a silencer. For that single long second, the only other sounds were that of empty brass shell casings dancing across Kyle's hardwood floor.
The monstrous figure stumbled on wavering feet, chest and back exploding with pieces of decayed flesh, pulverized bone, and congealed ochre. Something that looked like black paste splattered on the wall beside the entrance to Kyle's kitchen. With a groaning exhalation, the creature dropped to its knees, wavering back and forth.
Calmly, the bald man pulled aside his jacket and slipped the pistol back into a holster beneath his left arm. He then reached behind his back, extracting an intimidating knife. Stoically and without finesse, he advanced upon the monster, gripping the top of the sepulchral head in one hand before stabbing viciously with the knife through the creature's skull. The monster twitched for a moment, then went limp, toppling back.
Kyle took a moment to catch his breath, pushing himself into a sitting position on the floor. Gina squatted beside him, clutching him desperately. He watched his enigmatic savior as the man squatted over the corpse, digging the coins from the eyeless sockets with the tip of the knife. Once he had them both in hand, he looked to Kyle.
"You okay, doc?"
Kyle swallowed dryly. "What the hell was that?" he cried. "Who the hell are you?"
"Victor Cortes," the man said simply as he stood. "And that--" he indicated the body. "Was a zombie. Nasty one, too." His eyes flickered to Gina, making no effort to disguise his interest in her nudity.
"Baby . . . you need to put on some clothes," Kyle said meaningfully to his lover.
Her eyes registered nervousness as she regarded the bald man. Suddenly conscious of her exposure, she covered her breasts with one arm. "Yeah. Okay." Quickly, she rose and shambled back to the bedroom.
Kyle took a moment, which Victor Cortes seemed amiable to give, processing all that had happened in the previous few moments. More than that, his mind was finding correlations to the body on the medical examiner's table and drawing conclusions.
"You . . . you were in that warehouse. You killed the other one," he said at last.
Victor looked thoughtful, slipping the large knife into its sheath across his back under the jacket. "Well, if you wanna get technical, it was already dead. So I didn't really kill it."
Kyle passed his hand over his face. "This is too much," he muttered. He blinked a few times, watching as his strange visitor stepped to the nearest window, tentatively tugging on the drapery.
"Yeah, I know what you're going through," Victor said. He looked back to Kyle. "You seriously attached to these?"
Kyle frowned in confusion. "The curtains?"
"Yeah. The curtains."
"They're just . . . curtains."
Victor rolled his shoulders. "I'll take that as a 'no,'" he said, then ripped the fabric from the rod supporting them. Kyle flinched at the sudden sound, then watched with discombobulation as Victor laid out the curtain on the floor beside the corpse and rolled the supposed zombie onto it.
"What are you doing?"
"Zombies kind'a fall apart once you take 'em down," Victor explained. "It's a lot easier to roll 'em up in a bag. More efficient disposal that way."
Kyle watched distastefully as Victor wrapped up the body, folding in arms and legs at unnatural angles. Each sickening crunch of bone and ligament made him wince. "Look, I appreciate you saving my life and all, but I'd really like to know what the hell is going on."
Victor looked up briefly as he was cinching the makeshift sack closed. "I'll let Malcolm fill you in," he said. He managed a rakish grin. "I ain't much for explaining things. I'm more the front-line type."
Before he could give voice to his questions, Gina's tentative voice issued from the bedroom. Kyle glanced back, seeing that his lover had dressed quickly. Her eyes darted from Kyle to Victor to the bundle on the floor and back again. "You wanna tell me what the fuck's going on?" she asked.
"Official business," Victor chimed with a mirthless smile. He gave her a meaningful look. "Don't worry, ma'am, we won't question the reasons for your presence here as long as you don't question mine."
Gina fidgeted nervously. Victor's words conveyed an obvious threat, which she took as coming from a figure of authority. "Right." Her gaze returned to Kyle, seeking support and encouragement.
"Look, um, I'll explain all this later," Kyle said, following Victor's lead. He did not know if the man was friend or foe just yet, but he understood the necessary value of getting Gina out as quickly as possible. "Let's just get you a cab--"
"Already waiting downstairs," Victor interrupted, smiling smugly.
Kyle shot the man an annoyed and suspicious look, but nevertheless guided his lover to the door. Gina walked along the edge of the wall in an effort to stay as far away from the wrapped-up corpse as she could.
"I'll call later," Kyle promised.
Gina nodded stiffly, furtive eyes darting away from him. "Um . . . okay," she agreed awkwardly, then started down the hall toward the stairs. Kyle watched her go, consternation on his face.
"Damn fine ass on that one," Victor remarked beside him.
Kyle's eyes were hard. "Seeing as how we don't really know each other, I'd appreciate it if you kept your comments about her to yourself."
Victor shrugged, turning back into the apartment. "Just sayin'."
Kyle was silent a moment, absorbing the events of the previous few minutes as he watched Victor take the coins he had extracted from the corpse's head, affixing what looked like small pieces of putty to them. A length of thread was added, connecting the two, and Victor glanced around before finding a hook in the ceiling which the previous tenant from years before had left behind. Reaching up, Victor slipped the thread around the hook, so that the coins hung down.
"Who's Malcolm?" Kyle asked at last, confused by his visitor's actions.
"He's the boss," Victor said with a knowing smile. "Kind of a drama king, but you'll get used to it."
A frown crossed Kyle's face. "Excuse me?"
"Come on, doc, grab the other end," Victor said in avoidance of the question. He squatted by the head of the wrapped body, slipping his hands beneath the zombie's shoulders. The expression on his face was one of expectation as he read the reticence in the doctor's face. "Or, we could just leave it, and you can try explaining how a guy who's been dead for a few weeks ended up in your digs."
Kyle looked annoyed. "In case it's missed your attention, I only have one arm," he said. His eyes narrowed as he continued. "And I don't like threats."
Victor grinned. "Who the hell does?" he quipped, then indicated the wrapped body's feet with a nudge of his chin. "I tied a knot, there, to make it easy for you."
Kyle sighed. "I'm only doing this because you saved my life."
"Sure, doc," Victor returned with a wink. "Might wanna grab your coat and keys, first."
*****
With a grunt, Victor hurled the heavy corpse over the edge of the dumpster, whereupon it tumbled loudly atop the trash already deposited. Hoisting himself up onto the edge of the rank container, he reached in to cover the zombie bundle. Returning to his feet upon the pavement in the cold, wind-swept alley, he dusted his hands, then crossed himself in standard Christian fashion. Kyle watched the gruff, enigmatic man, whose mannerisms loudly bespoke the life of a soldier.
"How, exactly, does a zombie end up on my doorstep?" the anthropologist asked carefully, scarcely believing the words coming out of his mouth. "What, Pizza Hut is outsourcing to graveyards now?"
Victor chuckled. "Keep that sense of humor, doc, you're gonna need it." He gestured down the alley toward a plain white sedan. "Come on."
Kyle didn't budge as the stocky man took several steps away. With an impatient, annoyed expression, Victor stopped and looked back. "You coming, or what?"
"Why the hell should I go with you?"
Victor sighed heavily. "'Cause you want answers."
Kyle's expression was deadpan. "And I'm just supposed to trust you."
With a sour look, Victor stepped back toward the doctor. "Okay, doc, here's how it is," he spoke in a dark voice. "I ain't the type to lie or trick nobody. That ain't my bag. So, yeah, you're just supposed to trust me. And if that ain't enough, I was an Army Ranger for seven years and a UFC champion on top of that. I don't want to, but I'll drag your ass in if I have to."
Kyle seethed silently, unflinchingly standing his ground. But it was obvious by the way Victor Cortes spoke and moved that he was a skilled and dangerous man. And Kyle had never been much of a runner. "So, basically, I'm going whether I like it or not."
Victor nodded grimly. "Yup."
*****
The ride was sober and Kyle's mood sullen as the car bore them toward downtown. As the Monte Carlo skirted the edge of the river, the anthropologist pondered what he had seen. What little effect he had previously enjoyed from the alcohol was now gone, allowing his mind to ponder the stark reality of what he had experienced.
Zombies, Kyle thought in grim wonderment. Goddamn zombies! So, if they exist, then it follows that a means for animating them exists as well . . . .
He looked to Victor, who sang along with Sarah Brightman's rendition of Nessun Dorma. Despite the circumstances, Kyle had to admit the man had an impressive voice, which clashed with the dour soldier's facade he wore.
"So, where'd the zombies come from?" Kyle asked, pushing his voice up a few notches to be heard over the music.
Victor reluctantly stopped his singing, reaching for the dash to lower the volume. A brief expression of annoyance crossed his face, but was tempered quickly. "What'd you say, doc?"
"The zombies," Kyle repeated. "Someone made them, right?"
"That's usually how it works," Victor informed. "But sometimes, an unconsecrated graveyard can bring out the dead, too. That deader, though," he continued, referring to the creature which had attacked Kyle. "Was animated. But you'll learn about all that stuff pretty soon. Like I said—"
"You're the front line type," Kyle grumbled. "Am I to assume we're going to meet Malcolm now?"
"Wow, you're quick," Victor snipped sarcastically.
Kyle shot the man a look. "Thanks for noticing."
The stocky man chuckled under his breath and returned his attention to the road. "Lighten up, doc."
*****
Arriving at a notable downtown hotel, Victor guided the rumbling classic toward the circular driveway to one side. A red-coated young valet eagerly jogged out, accepting the keys from Victor without a word. Kyle had the distinct impression his guide was fairly well known at the establishment. With a beckoning gesture to Kyle, Victor headed up the short flight of stairs and into the building. Unerringly veering to the right once through the glass doors, he lead Kyle to a small side elevator. Neither man spoke as the polished, marble-floored cab bore them to the third floor.
Stepping out, the sounds of subdued conversation and soft jazz drifted out through black, opaque glass doors facing the elevator. Above the doors, in block lower case letters, was a white neon sign which read, "shades." As if opening the door to his own home, Victor pulled open one side of the portal and entered into the cool, smoky interior. The small bar was a modernist's dream, with the walls painted deep vermilion, the small triangular tables onyx-black. The S-shaped bar was similarly ebon, sporting a softly-glowing strip of white, like a river of moonlight cutting through shadow, embedded into the top. Several booths lined opposite walls, with padded leather seating. What few decorations there were consisted of small crimson lampshades in the center of every table and glowing sconces upon the walls.
There were half a dozen patrons at the bar itself, twice that seated around the tables and in the booths. Some gave their attention to the young woman standing upon a tiny stage against the darkly tinted window which looked out onto the city. Against that backdrop, she rolled out a breathy, sultry rendition of I've been Loving You. Her saucy voice was, as far as Kyle was considered, a fine replacement for Otis Redding's powerful original.
Victor approached the bar. A simple raise of the hand got the attention of the attractive bartender, a young-looking brunette clad in a shirt, bow tie and vest which, despite their voluminousness, nevertheless managed to suggest a lean, athletic physique. "Duty beer."
The woman cocked her head. "No shit," she remarked, reaching beneath the counter. She poured from a bottle of O'Doul's Amber and set the frothy non-alcoholic brew on the counter. "What about for the junior spaceman?" she asked, assessing Kyle with curious eyes.
Victor sipped his beer, licking away foam from his upper lip. "He ain't into being friendly."
"That so?" asked the bartender challengingly.
Kyle frowned. "Who the hell are you people?" he asked, feeling like the butt of a joke which had been carried too far.
For a moment, Victor and the bartender shared a conspiratorial smile. But then the young woman reached across the bar, offering her hand. "Sorry, doc. Don't take it too seriously."
Tentatively, Kyle accepted her hand, finding within it a firm grip. "So you know who I am, too," he said blandly. "Why am I not surprised?"
The bartender laughed softly. "You're quick."
"I already told him that," muttered Victor over his beer.
The bartender rolled her eyes. "I'm Faster," she said to the perturbed anthropologist, taking her hand back.
Kyle frowned. "Than what?"
For a moment, she smoldered her eyes in a practiced, seductive way which had no doubt worked upon many a male patron to the bar. "Than you could handle, baby." Then the look was gone, replaced with a disarming smile of dazzling white teeth. "No, that's my name, doc. Dawn Faster."
"Nice to meet you," Kyle said guardedly. He glanced back and forth between them. "I'm guessing the reason you know each other has nothing to do with this bar."
Victor nodded. "Yup."
"And, I'm guessing you're both part of some kind of organization."
Faster's eyes flashed. "Keep going."
Kyle sighed. "This is playing out like some bad spy movie, you know that, right?"
Faster laughed again. "So, does that make you James Bond?"
"I don't know, but if I was, I'd just have to turn around, and there would be the big guy himself. Only, since we're being civil and courteous, I couldn't exactly whip out my Walther PPK and exercise my license to kill."
"So why don't you turn around?" growled Victor over his glass.
Kyle felt a quick spike of anxiety mingled with apprehension. Silently encouraged by a look from Faster, he turned slightly, looking over his stumped shoulder. At first, all he saw were the patrons at their tables and booths, chatting amongst themselves or admiring the sexy singer on stage. But then he caught sight of a distinguished-looking man with pure silver hair, seated alone in the far corner booth. Staring at him.
"He's the guy at the--" began Victor.
"I already found him," Kyle interrupted rudely, pushing away from the bar. He approached the booth, crossing before the singer's stage, and stopped at the end of the gentleman's table.
"You must be Malcolm," Kyle said with reckless flair.
The older man nodded and took up a corona cigar from the marble ashtray upon the table. Beside it sat a crystal rocks glass with a small amount of golden liquid within. "It's been a rough night, I understand," the man said. He barely nudged his chin. "Take a seat."
Kyle fidgeted a moment, deciding between the juvenile reaction of resisting any suggestion the man might make and the logical one of complying for the sake of knowledge.
"Dr. Perrin," Malcolm said, his words coming across as a command.
The anthropologist rolled his eyes. "You know, the cloak and dagger stuff gets old pretty quick," he said, sliding into the booth across from the man.
Malcolm looked amused. "I find it an entertaining indulgence," he said. "You might be surprised by how often it works."
Kyle fixed the man with a deadpan look. "I doubt it. I study people, or didn't you know that?"
"Of course I do."
"Of course you do," Kyle muttered sourly.
Malcolm puffed on his cigar, then sat up, the thick grey smoke hanging like a cloud of muses around his head. "All right, all pretenses aside," he said in a direct tone that suggested disclosure. "Whether you fully realize it or not, your life changed tonight. There is an entire host of questions fluttering around inside that wonderfully open mind of yours. But there's only one question that demands immediate answering."
"And what's that?" challenged Kyle.
"Are you willing to accept that change?"
Kyle did not answer right away, and neither did Malcolm speak further, apparently satisfied to give the younger man time to consider his options. After only a few seconds, Kyle tore his eyes from the distinguished man's penetrating dark eyes, rubbing his fingers against his palm.
"I answered the door tonight to find a damn zombie delivering my pizza," he said, then laughed at the absurdity of his words. "Christ, if that's not a plot for an SNL skit, I don't know what is."
Malcolm's mouth flinched. "It is comical, when you think of it," he agreed. "Except when you consider the young man who was supposed to deliver your pizza. I have no doubt he will soon be found bludgeoned to death somewhere."
Kyle looked up in alarm.
Malcolm raised a hand to stifle his guest's query. "No, we didn't kill him," he said. "And if we could, we would have prevented it. But the truth is, until the zombie arrived at your building, we did not know how you would be targeted. I am only glad I had Victor watching you."
"You knew something was going to happen," Kyle said insightfully.
Malcolm nodded again, tapping the cigar. "I've years of instinct and experience in these matters," he said. "Aside from that, I'll admit to having kept tabs on you for a while, now."
Kyle felt defensive. "The hell does that mean?" he exclaimed, then made an effort to lower his voice, consider the environment. "Just who the fuck are you?"
Malcolm's gaze was steady and calm. "My name is Malcolm Benedict," he said. "And I am a Director with the Veil Society."
Kyle's eyes narrowed. "Malcolm Benedict . . . I remember reading about a tenured professor at Brown with that name. He vanished in the late eighties."
The silver-haired man nodded sagely. "That was when I joined the Veil Society," he said.
"So, you're telling me that you're the Malcolm Benedict, author of a dozen books on anthropology, psychology, history and comparative cultures. And you mysteriously disappeared to join . . . what, some kind of cult? Got tired of waiting to be promoted to dean?"
Malcolm looked even more amused, and more than a touch condescending. "Are you really trying to bait me, Dr. Perrin? Because, if you wish, we could spend the next few hours debating the merits of your Darwin's Mistake in relation to my Ancient Civilizations. But that would waste precious time."
Kyle regarded the man across from him warily. The casual mention of both his and Dr. Benedict's most definitive works made him cautiously accepting. More than that, however, was Malcolm's last comment. "What do you mean, 'precious time?'"
Malcolm set the cigar in the ashtray and closed his hands together upon the table before him. "You're an investigator, Kyle," he said pointedly. "Not by profession, but by nature. You aren't content with mere research and supposition. No, even know, you are wondering how it was that a walking corpse wound up at your apartment tonight. And, more than that, you want to find out why . . . and who."
"Do you know?" Kyle chanced.
Malcolm shook his head slowly. "No, not empirically. But I have my suspicions. As do you."
Kyle chewed his lip thoughtfully. "The man who purchased the coins. Darness."
"The logical choice."
Kyle started to respond, then paused in his thinking and straightened. Suspicious eyes read across Malcolm's features. "Let me get this straight: I'm supposed to just accept that someone, somehow, has a way of animating the dead, and send them to do his bidding?"
The older man spread his hands before him like an unshakable poker player revealing his cards. "In the absence of all conventional reasoning, why not?"
Kyle sighed wearily. "And you're the leader of some kind of Hollywood-like strike team that fights these things."
"Among others, yes."
Kyle studied the man with reluctant eyes. "How do I know I saw what I saw tonight, and that it wasn't some trick?"
"Good question. How do you plan to find out?"
Kyle shook his head with a low, rueful chuckle. "I know a fair amount of psychology myself, Dr. Benedict," he said.
"So you know what I'm doing." The older man's eyes were penetrating.
"I doubt that," Kyle laughed. His mirth faded quickly. "Why is it that you want me to believe you?"
"Because," Malcolm said with careful diction. "I want you to see the world as it truly is. I want to know if you are willing to, as I said, accept the change to which you've been exposed."
The two men locked eyes a moment, studying each other. Finally, Kyle eased back, drumming his fingers nervously upon the polished, cool tabletop.
"Fine."
*****
Back in the Monte Carlo with Victor, Kyle fidgeted with the hem of his pea coat. He was conflicted about believing what he had been told and what he had seen . . . and what those supposed truths might mean to his existence.
The music was off in the car. Sarah Brightman's melodic voice did not cut the air between them. There was only the thick warble of the engine and the faint whir of the vehicle's heating system through the vents.
"About three years ago, I was up for a champion match," Victor said out of the blue. "I'd held the UFC title for a good six months, defending twice. Not the best record, but not the worst. Anyway, my manager tells me there's this kid named Hobby, shot to the top in less than a year, knockouts all the way, and he wants a chance at the title. 'Sure,' I say, 'bring it on.'
"They make it an official match," Victor continued. "Live audience, me and the kid in a cage. Ten rounds max, point system judging. Typical stuff."
Kyle waited through his companion's pause. "What happened?"
Victor's lips split in a mirthless smile. "The fucker took me out in four rounds. Never seen anybody move that fast, that smooth, with that kind of power. Thinking about it now, I'm surprised I lasted as long as I did."
"I don't understand," Kyle said with a frown.
"I didn't, either," echoed Victor. He stopped the car at a red light. A sad look crossed his face. "After the fight, I'm sitting alone in the locker room, wondering what the fuck just happened. I mean, I barely got my hands on the guy. It was like trying to fight an oiled tornado. I just kept hearing the way Hobby laughed, like he fucking knew, no matter what, he was gonna win. And he did. I lost the title, left the circuit. Figured I was washed up at thirty."
"There's more to it than that," Kyle prompted.
"Yup." Victor nodded. "Few weeks later, I get a call from some guy named Malcolm. Wants to talk to me about my future. Really kind of freaked me out how much he knew about me. Thought he was a spook at first." He glanced briefly to Kyle. "You know. CIA."
Kyle blinked slowly. "I know what you meant."
"Anyway," Victor went on. "I talk it out with Mal, and he says he wants to show me something. I end up in some run-down house in the 'burbs, surrounded by goblins."
Kyle perked incredulously. "'Goblins?'"
"Yup. Dozens of 'em. Gibbering little green fuckers with big ears, big heads, and a whole lot of nasty attitude. Took me for a ride at first, got some good licks in, but then I found my groove and took 'em all down. Malcolm came in for the cleanup. Kind'a pissed me off, and I let him know it. But then he told me to take a look around, see what I'd done."
"And?"
Victor laughed darkly. "Those fuckers were Hobby's brood." He cast a knowing look at Kyle. "See, turns out that Hobby was a rare breed of goblin, called a hobgoblin. Hobby . . . hobgoblin. Get it?" He snorted distastefully. "Hell of a lot faster and stronger than most humans. Anyway, Hobby caught the drift of what happened, and . . . ."
Kyle couldn't help but smile knowingly. "You had another showdown."
"Bet your ass," confirmed Victor, hitting the gas as the light turned green. "Put me in the hospital for weeks afterward, but I took that fucker down. That was the first time in my life I ever saw what real evil was like. I'd killed before, but this was different. It was right."
Kyle thought about what Victor had told him. "You'll forgive me if I take what you just said with a grain of salt."
The stocky Hispanic smiled grimly. "Don't blame you. But that ain't your doing. That's the Veil."
"The Veil," Kyle repeated, remembering how Dr. Benedict had described himself as belonging to something called the Veil Society.
Victor nodded, keeping his eyes on the road. "I ain't as good as Malcolm when it comes to explaining things, but it's like this: most people see what they're trained to see. The Veil makes everybody ignore the strange shit that's all over the place, or explain it away. Take your ladyfriend the pro back there. I can pretty much guarantee she didn't see a zombie tonight; she just saw some really ugly mother fucker who smelled bad."
"That doesn't make sense," Kyle insisted, even as he remembered how Gina had referred to the zombie as a 'who' and not a 'what.' "I could tell right away that thing wasn't normal. Turn your logic around. How do you know Hobby was anything but human? Maybe you were deluding yourself then."
Victor slowly swiveled his head to give Kyle a look. "You think that was a human being that attacked you tonight?"
Kyle breathed out, looking down. "Good point."
"It ain't easy, I know," Victor said. "Once you see the real truth of the world, it kind'a makes you wake up. And that ain't something most people wanna do."
"So what's the Veil Society?"
Victor's eyes were dark, hard. "We're the last line of defense," he said. "For all them sad sacks who refuse to see the truth, we're the ones saving them."
"From what?"
Victor chuckled darkly. "Their worst nightmare."
*****
The neighborhood in which the address for Alan Darness lay was a collection of warehouses along the river. The area of town was all but completely devoid of life this time of night, save for a shambling old woman pushing a laden shopping cart containing the accumulation of her life. The wind was stronger here, following the channel between downtown buildings created by the river, making the air bitingly cold. Kyle shivered in his coat as he and Victor stepped from the sedan. He noticed the green car belonging to Detective Dacosta parked further along the street and pointed it out to Victor.
"Got his number, right? Give him a call."
Kyle shrugged, fishing out his phone. He scrolled through for the detective's number and pressed 'call.' It rang five times as Victor waited patiently, scanning up and down the street. Kyle finally hung up when the automatic message for Dacosta's service kicked in.
"Nothing," he said at last, slipping the phone back in his pocket. He looked worried.
Victor grumbled contemplatively under his breath, producing the pistol Kyle had seen earlier with such fluid, practiced ease that Kyle had not even registered the movement. "Stay behind me, doc," he directed, then crossed the street, keeping the weapon at his side. Upon reaching the door of the warehouse they wanted, he tested the door. "Unlocked."
"Obviously, Dacosta's already inside."
"And he might not be alone," Victor said. "I hope you don't freak easy."
Kyle looked insulted. "I've been around."
"Good." Taking out a small black flashlight, he held it beneath his right hand so that the butt of the pistol was atop the back of his hand. The barrel and beam of light would thus always be aimed in the same direction. Nudging open the door with his foot, Victor ventured inside, with Kyle close behind.
"So what happened the other night?" Kyle asked in a low voice. "I doubt you were just in the right place at the right time to kill a zombie."
"Nope. I was looking for it," confirmed the stocky man, gingerly making his way through a short hall. "We'd been hearing about homeless people disappearing, decided to check it out. I'd actually been casing this neighborhood for a few days before I saw that deader. I guess someone heard the gunshots and the cops were actually quick to respond."
"That's why you didn't take the coins out of its eyes. Or burn the body."
"Yup." Victor rounded the bend of the corridor, approaching a half-opened door. Behind him Kyle sniffed the air, detecting something moldy, musty, altogether unpleasant.
"What'cha sniffing, doc?"
Kyle wrinkled his nose. "Smells like a mortuary."
"Hmm."
"You think there's another one of those zombies here?"
"Could be."
"So what was the deal with hanging up the coins in my apartment?"
Victor slowly eased open the door, panning the flashlight-handgun combo back and forth in dusty, murky darkness. They entered into the main floor of the warehouse, with a ceiling more than twenty feet high. Skeletal rafters ran the span of the room about fifteen feet off the ground. Empty pallets and crates lay about chaotically, interspersed with discarded garbage indicative of homeless squatters. The tell-tale aroma of unwashed bodies filled the air, but it was stale and faded.
"In a word, scrying, doc."
"'Scrying?'"
"It's a way of seeing," Victor said, cautiously stepping across the warehouse floor. He scanned all around, the wide, pale beam of light painting across beams and walls, tables and crates. "Anything a wizard enchants can be used to see through, even hear through, if he's got the right kind of device to use. Like a crystal ball or cauldron or the right kind of mirror. So, by leaving the coins hanging at eye level in your apartment, he might think the damn zombie's just being stubborn about coming back and--"
He stopped upon catching sight of Kyle's annoyed face. The anthropologist stood with his weight balanced on one leg, glaring at Victor in consternation.
Victor chuckled. "You think I'm full of shit, right?"
"You really expect me to believe everything you just said?"
"Not really," Victor affirmed with a roll of his shoulders. "But you will."
"You know, it doesn't take long before having smoke blown up my ass goes from being annoying to downright aggravating."
Victor merely chuckled, the low, ominous sound of a man who was sure he was right. That irritated Kyle. Not so much because of Victor's assuredness, but because Kyle was afraid the man truly was right.
"Look at this place, doc," Victor said, resuming his vigilance. "Nobody's been here in years except bums."
"Who aren't here," Kyle pointed out. "Night as cold as this, you'd think they'd be packing it in."
Victor nodded grimly. "Unless they have a reason to stay away. Or . . . ."
"Or what?"
The beam of the flashlight fell upon a far door, which presumably opened into what had once been the warehouse's office. The door lay open, and with the illumination of the light, a foot could be seen, shod in a leather shoe.
"Or they're dead," Victor finished, approaching the door. Kyle remained where he was, feeling his hackles rise. It suddenly seemed colder in the warehouse; the stump of his arm throbbed with dim pain. A wind howled outside, bringing to Kyle's mind the lifeless wail of the zombie when it attacked.
He watched Victor as he approached the far door, barely making a noise upon the ground despite all the litter. The man paused, pushing the door open a little more, shining the light down upon where the corpse to which the foot belonged would lay. A dark look crossed his face, and he bent, retrieving something.
"It's Dacosta, isn't it?"
Victor nodded, looking through the wallet he had picked up.
Kyle swallowed nervously, looking around. The shadows, it seemed, were moving at the edge of his vision, but he assumed that was a function of his own anxiety. "Can you tell how he died?"
"Beat to death," Victor reported, returning from the door as cautiously as he had approached, panning the light back and forth. "Looks typical of a zombie attack to me. They ain't the brightest, you know. They only have one weapon, their fists--"
He stopped as his eyes settled upon something over Kyle's shoulder. At the same moment, Kyle heard the low, baleful sound of air escaping through dry lips, followed by the scraping of a wooden crate upon the floor. He reacted instantly, darting to the side, giving Victor a clear shot at what he was sure was a zombie.
The trio of shots echoed in the warehouse, all but deafening Kyle to the point where he only barely heard the ringing of discarded shell casings on the hard concrete floor. He looked back, even as Victor advanced toward his target. A corpse in the ragged trappings of the homeless lay upon the floor, arms and legs twitching slightly. Unceremoniously, Victor returned his pistol to its holster and produced the knife.
Kyle straightened, looking around the warehouse. His mind was working its usual logic, taking bits and pieces and putting them together. With the fantastic as the backdrop, now that he took previously ridiculous information as possible, the conclusions were clear and simple.
"Makes sense," he remarked at last.
"What does?" asked Victor, standing from his squatting position over the zombie. He slipped two more coins into his pocket.
"If you were going to make zombies, where would you get them?"
Victor shrugged. "A graveyard, I guess."
Kyle smiled knowingly. "But that's messy," he said. "Not to mention a pain in the ass. Who wants to dig up graves? It's time-consuming and would probably be noticed. But--" He jabbed a finger in the air. "-- who's gonna miss a bunch of homeless people?"
"We did," Victor said curtly. "Well, it was more like a fluke that we heard about it. Okay, I see what you're getting at, doc. Kill some homeless, make 'em zombies--"
"And you don't have to guess what kind of shape the bodies are in, 'cause you already know," added Kyle. "Another advantage over digging up graves."
Victor arched a single brow. "Kind'a scary how you're mind's working."
Kyle chuckled. "I could have been a profiler," he said.
"No shit."
"Any other rooms in this place?"
Victor shook his head. "Bathroom, office, warehouse. Pretty much it."
"So the other zombies aren't here."
Victor looked interested. "'Other' zombies? How many you figure our guy's got?"
"Forty-five more."
"Now, just how the fuck you know that?"
"Because a good lie is one that has its origins in the truth," Kyle informed. "Tillby said that Alan Darness bought four dozen sets of the coins. Sets. Jesus, I should have caught it then. If he's putting two coins in each zombie head, then that's forty-eight zombies. You've killed three, now, so that means there are forty-five left."
"Okay," Victor said in acceptance of Kyle's theory. "So now we not only gotta find this damn Darness guy, but take out a shitload more zombies."
"You weren't listening," Kyle said with a wink. "There is no Darness. It's Tillby, the antiques dealer." He looked about at the clutter, spying numerous empty water bottles and fast food bags. He picked up one of the bottles, rolling it around in his hand.
Victor frowned in confusion. "What are you doing?"
"It's all coming together," Kyle said. "Think about it. Bottled water? Fast food? Homeless people would've scavenged what they could. No, someone gave them all this."
"Yeah, some people feel sorry for them. So what?"
Kyle grinned darkly. "No one felt sorry for these people," he said. "They were poisoned."
"How'd you figure that out, sherlock?"
"I didn't. The medical examiner did, after cutting open that first zombie. Not too much of a leap in logic that, if the first zombie was killed that way, so were all the others. Nice way to keep them intact, too. Plus, it shows that our zombie-maker is at least a little squeamish. He'd rather kill them slowly than do it quick and messy."
Victor grimaced. "So he does 'em in, makes them zombies, and nobody's supposed to notice. Hell, he almost got away with it."
Kyle nodded. "And when I show up, asking about the coins, he conveniently gives me a fake name and an address. He assumes I'd send Dacosta, so he leaves a zombie here, and when Dacosta shows up, zombie kills him."
"And he sends another your way."
Kyle gritted his teeth angrily. "How did he know I'd ordered pizza?"
"Scrying, remember?"
Kyle narrowed his eyes in thought. "The coins from the first zombie," he mused. He fixed Victor a look. "You're not bullshitting me with this whole 'scrying' thing, are you?"
The reply was short and honest. "Nope."
Kyle mused in uncomfortable silence for a moment.
"Look, doc, I know a lot of this shit flies in the face of everything you know, but it's all real. But I'm guessing you're already coming around."
Kyle pursed his lips. "Maybe. I might need a little more evidence, though."
Victor nodded grimly. "Time to pay a visit to your Mr. Tillby."
*****
The store hours posted on a sign in the window meant that, as of midnight, Curious Curios had been closed for over four hours. A metal gate had been extended across the doors as a measure of protection from opportunistic thieves and vandals. Mr. Wayland Tillby, obviously, was a man concerned with protecting his wares . . . and secrets.
"Why don't we just call the police?" asked Kyle as he and Victor exited the sedan. "I mean, Dacosta's already dead. We can't just leave him in that warehouse."
"When the time's right, doc," Victor growled. "We do our job, first."
Kyle arched an eyebrow. "You're just taking it as a matter of fact that I'm going to join you guys."
Victor managed a thin smile. "I've been watching you. You're getting off on this, even if you don't want to admit it."
The anthropologist bristled inwardly, but only a little. He hated thinking that other people could read him. He was always the one who did the reading. Briefly, he was reminded of Dr. Benedict's words to him: "You're an investigator."
"I wouldn't exactly put it that way," Kyle said at last, his tone more than a little defensive.
Victor chuckled. "Right." But he did not push the issue, instead indicating the brownstone. "Okay, your show. You've been here before."
Kyle breathed in, assessing the situation. "I'm guessing Tillby lives upstairs," he said. "He strikes me as having an obsessive personality, so he wouldn't want to be far from all his little toys. Probably why he chose this building for his store in the first place."
Victor nodded with a grunt. "There's probably an entrance for the residents on the side, then," he suggested. "Let's go."
*****
The narrow stairwell was musty, the faded old runner affixed to the steps rife with the odors of mildew and cigarette smoke. Victor ascended quietly, his bulk eliciting the occasional groan from old wooden steps. The black pistol was held professionally in his hands as his eyes swept back and forth across the approaching landing. He did not bother with the flashlight this time, thanks to a window in the stairwell which allowed streetlight to paint the walls a ghostly white.
Wayland Tillby's name was the only one listed on the short collection of mailboxes at the foot of the stairs, intimating that perhaps there were no other residents in the brownstone. To Kyle, that indicated a higher level of wealth than would be expected from a simple antiques dealer.
Unless he's got a business on the side, Kyle thought. Selling zombies, maybe?
The second-floor landing gave way to a hall which ran the length of the brownstone. There were two doors on either side, painted in faded marigold that, perhaps a century or more before, complemented the equally-marred maroon paint on the walls. Sconces glowed faintly like dying torches, casting a ruddy glow through the air.
"Doc, here," whispered Victor, producing a small pistol which he held out to Kyle. The weapon was a blunt, blocky piece of metal and polymer, barely larger than Kyle's fist. "It don't look like much, but it'll do the job. You ever fire a handgun?"
"A few times," Kyle admitted, gingerly accepting the small automatic.
Quickly, Victor pointed out the weapon's features. "Safety," he said, touching the pistol in the appropriate place. "Magazine release. It's a nine-mil, but it's only got six rounds. You shoot me in the back and I'll kick your ass."
Kyle nodded, carefully gripping the pistol in his hand. It was lighter than the few handguns he had fired before on the practice range with his father. The memory which came to mind seemed to belong to a former life. He forced himself to keep his mind on the moment. "Don't worry about me."
Victor did not look entirely convinced, but he had little choice but to extend a certain amount of trust to the doctor. With a lingering wary look, the bald man padded along the corridor toward the nearest door. The number covered in faded gilding matched that of the mailbox for Wayland Tillby. Slipping the pistol back beneath his jacket, he extracted his set of lockpicks and knelt to work on the door.
Silently, Kyle kept watch, casting his gaze up and down the hallway. Now and then, he thought he heard shuffling feet through the walls. His mind naturally had him imagining a horde of zombies waiting on the other side. "You sure you don't have any backup you could call, or something?" he asked in a harsh whisper.
Victor chuckled. "Relax, doc."
Kyle soured. 'Relax, doc.' He was getting tired of hearing that.
"Let's go," Victor announced after only a few seconds more, standing and returning the little leather tool case inside his jacket. The pistol appeared in his hand once more, and he twisted the knob.
The rooms beyond were dark, but the pale streetlight shining through the slats of the window blinds was enough for the men to see that they were sparsely furnished. There were no pictures or decorations upon the walls, and the only furniture in the living room consisted of a single chair facing the window. Tall boxes sat along the walls – like coffins, Kyle thought with a chill – surrounding the chair.
"I don't like this," Victor growled under his breath, venturing carefully toward the single chair.
"You and me both." Kyle lingered at the edge of the living room, warily watching the standing boxes.
"You're thinking the same thing I am," Victor muttered, surveying the room quickly. "And I bet we're both right."
"If there are zombies in those boxes--"
"They won't do anything unless triggered," finished Victor, stepping around the chair. He frowned upon what he saw laying in the seat. "Oh, this is definitely not good."
"What is it?"
Victor picked up a plain index card from the chair, holding it between two fingers. His eyes fell meaningfully upon Kyle's. "It's for you."
Kyle took only enough steps toward Victor to be able to reach the proffered note. Tilting it toward the light coming through the windows, he first read his own name in large script – "Dr. Kyle Perrin" – and then a brief message: "I care not who you are, but it won't matter anyway. My creations will see the end of you. Rest assured that, after you're gone, I will treat your young lady with the attention she deserves."
Kyle looked to Victor in alarm. "He's got Gina," he said.
Just as the words were spoken, the four large crates around the room burst open, baleful groans accompanying the sudden onslaught of a quartet of raggedly-garbed zombies. Copper eyes catching the dim light, they fell upon the two men, three heading for Victor beside the chair, the fourth for its nearest available target – Kyle.
He was barely able to watch as Victor reacted quickly, snapping up his pistol and releasing a thunderous round toward the nearest creature. Then darkness fell over Kyle's eyes, and the fetid stench of decaying flesh filled his senses. The hand that covered his face was sickeningly dry, the tissue scratchy like burned flesh. Another arm encircled his torso, lifting him off the floor. The zombie possessed supernatural strength, more than the corpse had possessed in life.
But Kyle was not without resources. His experience and skill had not been entirely devoted to academic research.
Steeling himself against the nauseating odor that invaded his senses, Kyle managed to focus quickly, wriggling against the tightening grip which sought to crush the life from his body. Kicking backward with all the force he could muster, he was rewarded by a sharp snap of bone as the zombie's knee was shattered. The arms around him relaxed somewhat, allowing Kyle to slip free and land upon the ground. Reacting on instinct, he kicked backward again, this time with the added leverage of having one foot planted firmly on the floor. The blow sent the monster stumbling backward, but its unnatural resiliency kept it from falling.
Whirling about, Kyle raised the small pistol, aiming unerringly at the distorted, disgusting face of his attacker. A few mere paces apart, and the single bullet sent from the weapon shattered tissue, bone and the remains of the brain behind it, resulting in a dark cloud of exploding ichor behind the zombie's head. With a final groan, the zombie toppled backward.
Returning his attention to Victor, Kyle quickly realized his assistance was not needed. One zombie lay unmoving already, its head turned all the way around and canted at an odd angle. Victor had his arm locked around the head of another as he stabbed through the chest of the fourth with his knife, then stabbed again directly between the eyes. Jerking his blade free, the stocky man viciously buried his blade through the skull of the creature he had headlocked, ending its unnatural existence as well.
Looking up from his downed foes, Victor grinned upon seeing the zombie Kyle had defeated, apparently impressed. "Not bad, doc. Thought I had you all figured out, too."
Kyle distastefully wiped his mouth upon his sleeve. "Got mugged about five years ago," he explained, shoving the pistol into his jacket and taking out his cell phone. "Figured learning a little self-defense wouldn't be a bad idea."
"Who you calling?"
Kyle's eyes flashed with focused anxiety. "Gina," he said simply, pushing one last button and settling the phone beside his ear.
"Hi. This is Gina. Leave your name and a message after--"
"Damn it!" cried Kyle, snapping the phone closed. He gave Victor a helpless look.
"You got her address?"
Kyle frowned. "I know she hangs out at Rudy's," he said plaintively, then added with a sense of disdain: "And she sometimes works out of the Stuyvesant Hotel. Especially when she feels depressed."
Victor cocked his head. "Like she might feel after tonight?"
Kyle's face darkened. "Let's go."
*****
"You know, I don't usually like to pour salt into an open wound," Victor drawled as the Monte Carlo rumbled around them. "But I get the feeling you like this Gina chick a lot more than just for the occasional booty call."
Kyle simmered angrily, trying to remain calm. "Just drive."
Victor sighed. "I don't need you acting like this right now, doc. I don't care how, but you gotta have a level head." He chanced a quick glance away from the road before. "You get me?"
Kyle made the effort. He nodded, gritting his teeth. "Yeah . . . I understand."
"I sure as hell hope so, otherwise ain't nothing good gonna come outta this."
"Depends how you measure 'good.'"
Victor focused on the road. "Right now, it's with you and me walking away alive."
*****
The Stuyvesant lay somewhere between faded opulence and tarnished glory. An edifice to late-1920s art deco, it contributed indelibly to the downtown skyline. In its existence, the Stuyvesant had been home to wealthy actors and actresses, nefarious gangsters, and later, the pitiable and downtrodden. The decay into which it had fallen during the sixties, when downtown had become the home for social refuse, had been arrested in recent decades, restoring some of the hotel's famous and infamous notoriety. Against this backdrop, the hotel was both a tourist's dream because of its location and low prices, and a magnet for certain seedy aspects of the human condition; prostitution being one of them.
Slipping a few bills to a valet, Victor and Kyle headed up the clamshell-styled stairs of the front entrance and into the grand lobby which had once been graced by the feet of the finest which Hollywood and foreign nations could produce. Mundanity had intruded in the form of a Starbuck's counter and an overpriced gift shop which advertised T-shirts in the front window sporting the city's skyline.
The two men ignored the obstacles of capitalism on their way to the Speyside Lounge, which, alone in the hotel, held a well-earned reputation for its large variety of imported Scotch. It was a favorite of connoisseurs and visiting businessmen, and a natural haven for comely young women with the brazenness and skill to ply the world's oldest trade . . . for a price, of course. Twenty-five percent to the house.
From conversation with Gina, Kyle knew that she really did not like working through the hotel, despite the greater financial returns. She had hinted at certain forms of 'extra payment' she and other girls had to provide to members of the bar staff and management of the Speyside Lounge, in exchange for earning three, four, or five times as much as they could demand on the street. Still, the money was attractive, and Gina found reasons to convince herself to endure the secondary aspects now and then. Usually when she was short on money, or when she felt dejected and depressed.
She wanted to talk about us, Kyle thought as they entered the bar. And I shoved her out the door like an unwanted puppy. She thinks I'm hiding something from her, probably thinks I'm mixed up with crooked cops or gangsters or something. That's not the kind of guy she was looking for.
And after tonight, how can I convince her otherwise?
How could I explain the truth?
The bartender was a tall, good-looking fellow with slicked-back blonde hair and a catty grin. In his scarlet vest and pressed white shirt, he looked the epitome of the professional drink-slinger.
"What can I get for you, gentlemen?"
Kyle and Victor scanned up and down the bar, noting the lack of patrons, which was not surprising given the time of night. In recent minutes, Kyle had managed to convince Victor that he should do the talking.
"Cold beer for my friend," Kyle said with an amiable smile. "Best you have on tap. Me, I'll take Bacardi 151, neat. Make it a double."
The bartender arched an eyebrow, but complied with a professional smile. He pulled on a tap marked 'Maredsous,' then picked up a glass and took down a bottle. "Rough night, guys?"
"Yeah. Rough night."
A glass of cold amber liquid was set before Victor, a rocks glass slightly under half-full with a clear potable in front of Kyle. Victor regarded his beer speculatively. Kyle lifted his glass and inhaled the rich aroma of potent rum.
"Anything else, gentlemen?"
Kyle responded without looking at the man. "I'm looking for a woman."
"Aren't we all."
The anthropologist lifted his gaze, eyes dark and penetrating. "What's your name?"
"Steve," the man answered, looking somewhat nervous.
"Well, Steve," Kyle continued. "I can tell you honestly that my friend and I aren't cops, so don't worry about that."
Steve's smile was plastic. "Okay. But I still can't help you."
"Yes you can." Kyle's smile became intimidating. "Gina."
The bartender blinked once. "I'm sorry?"
"Gina. She's a girl who works here. You know her."
Steve laughed unconvincingly. "I don't know what you're talking--"
"Got some matches?"
The bartender blinked again, then looked below the edge of the bar. "Uh, sure. Here."
Kyle took up the matchbook he was handed – deep crimson on both sides with the address of the hotel and bar on the back. He flipped the cover, tore off a match and lit it, all with his one hand. The flame flared brightly before sputtering off to a tiny, flickering orange bud of heat. "Watch this," he said, eying an empty snifter that lay a few feet away. With a deft flick of his wrist, Kyle sent the match into the glass.
The bartender nodded slowly, while Victor looked impressed. "Good aim," Steve commented.
Kyle smiled again, then set down the matchbook. With another fluid move, he took up the glass of volatile rum and hurled the contents onto the startled bartender. Steve sputtered and stumbled back, making the display of bottles upon their glass shelves rattle. He wiped his face and blinked rapidly, finally opening his eyes. He found Kyle staring at him from beyond the slightly-wavering flame of a lit match.
"You know what 151 means, right?" Kyle asked rhetorically, his voice holding a vicious edge. "That means it's over seventy-five percent alcohol. And right now, you're wearing it. Now, just imagine what would happen if I tossed this match at you."
Victor looked to Kyle with a mixture of alarm, wonder, and awe. He remained silent, the fingers of his right hand dancing beneath the edge of his jacket against the butt of the pistol.
Steve held up his hands defensively. "Okay, okay," he said. "Um, Gina, right?"
Kyle nodded, dark gaze unwavering. "Right."
The cowed bartender licked his lips, tasting the biting flavor of rum. "Well, she's uh, with somebody. Been with him for a couple hours, now."
"I know."
Steve's furtive eyes danced back and forth between the two men. "Uh, I can't really tell you what room—"
"Yes you can," Kyle said menacingly over the tip of the flame, now halfway down the match.
The bartender swallowed nervously. "Yeah . . . okay."
*****
Tinny muzak filtered through the speakers of the elevator as it bore the two men toward the eleventh floor. Kyle took out the little pistol, regarding it clinically. He passed his thumb over the ambidextrous safety catch, making sure the weapon was ready to fire. Beside him, Victor drew his own weapon, extracting the clip and replacing it with a fresh one. He racked the slide, then took a steadying breath. A crooked smile stretched across his lips.
"Not often I'm impressed."
Kyle looked down, as if in shame. "You study people for as long as I have, you learn a few things."
"Don't sound like you're too proud of that."
"I'm not," confirmed Kyle. "Not at the moment, anyway."
Victor shook his head gravely. "I told you this wasn't going to be easy."
Kyle snorted. "You were right."
The bald man craned his neck, giving Kyle a comradely smile. "Maybe it's just me, but I think we make a pretty good team."
The anthropologist's smile was more genuine this time. "Yeah. Looks that way."
*****
Finding the room was easy enough. It lay only a few paces from the elevator. The hallway was silent, vacant. Weapons held before them, the two men approached the door.
"Kick it," Kyle directed.
Victor grinned, then lifted a booted foot. With a powerful kick, he sent the door flying inward on its hinges, slamming against the wall just inside. Part of the door jamb rang metallically, dancing across the carpet of the short hallway beyond.
Both Kyle and Victor raised their weapons instantly upon witnessing the scene before them. On the far side of the room, against the backdrop of the city through a polished glass balcony door, Gina sat strapped to a chair, mouth gagged with her own black panties. Her face was fearful, eyes red and swollen from the expenditure of tears. Beside her stood the deceptively amiable figure of Wayland Tillby, clad in another tweed suit, pressing the barrel of a revolver against Gina's temple. The short, portly man looked smug.
"Dr. Perrin, you amaze me!" He clucked his tongue at the approach of the two men, wagging a finger at them with his free hand. "Uh-uh. One more step, and your beloved whore will be fucked in a way she will never experience again."
Kyle snarled, reading the fear and hopelessness upon Gina's face. Aggressively, he aimed his pistol at the collector. "What makes you think I can't kill you before you can pull the trigger?"
Tillby chuckled darkly. "Because you can't really take the chance, can you? After all, she means so much to you, doesn't she?"
"All the more reason to take the chance."
Tillby cocked his head with an inscrutable look. "Well, that's an illogical leap," he quipped. "Not a very romantic hero, are you?"
Kyle glared, forcing himself not to be affected by Gina's pleading stare. "You assume too much. How about we turn this around? You tell me where the rest of the zombies are, and I won't kill you."
Tillby glowered. "I can't do that," he said. "My clients are counting on me. Now, put down your guns, both of you. Now! I won't say it again!"
Kyle sneered. "You know, I've done a lot of research in my life, learned about a lot of things."
"I don't really care," snapped Tillby, the hand holding the revolver shaking slightly. Sweat beaded upon his brow.
"Such as," continued Kyle. "Say, the trigger pull on your average .38 special revolver. How many times have you fired a gun, Tillby?"
The doughty man's face reddened in desperate anger. "I'll count to three! One!"
"Two," said Kyle with surprising calm.
He pulled the trigger.
Gina's muted scream would forever echo in his mind.
*****
Kyle sat staring at the floor as the sun rose over the eastern horizon, bathing the end of the hallway in which he sat in a warm, rosy glow. The arrival of the police had come just before that of Dr. Benedict, whose presence and words, it seemed, quelled their interest in the solemn anthropologist. They and the attendant crime scene investigators went about their business until the hotel room had been thoroughly processed and all evidence gathered.
Kyle's dulled study of the faded carpet before him was interrupted by the presence of leather-shod feet beneath expensive charcoal-colored slacks. "I had not expected quite this much from you, Kyle. I have to say, I'm impressed."
Kyle pursed his lips, nodding slightly. "I wish it hadn't ended the way it did," he said carefully.
"Considering the options, how else could it have?"
The younger man lifted his head, gazing up at Malcolm's wizened face. "I always thought it would be harder to kill someone."
Malcolm's rough-edged eyes softened somewhat. "As with all things, it's a matter of perception." He slid onto the low-backed bench beside Kyle.
"Maybe," Kyle acquiesced. "He was still human."
"Again, a matter of perception. Physiologically, yes, he was a human being. Put together the same as you or I. But is it human to traffic with the undead? To murder and manipulate the innocent?"
Kyle laughed ruefully. "I don't think I'm in the mood for a philosophical discussion right now."
"Fair enough," responded Malcolm. "On a related note, you might be glad to know that we recovered the rest of the zombies. Packed within crates in a warehouse not far from the one in which you and Victor found the detective. It seems Mr. Tillby had begun what could have been a lucrative business in supplying zombies to certain underworld figures. You saved a lot of lives tonight."
Kyle rubbed his hand along his thigh. "But was it worth it?"
"Ever the question," said Malcolm heavily. He eased forward, bringing his face in line with Kyle's peripheral vision. "It is one we wrestle with every day."
"'We,'" echoed Kyle. "The Veil Society."
"Yes."
"You want me to join you."
"I would think that is obvious by now."
"What exactly is the Veil?"
Malcolm drew a breath, as if preparing to deliver a practiced speech. "The Veil is the illusion around us. It hides the real truth of the world which most people, over centuries of subconscious indoctrination, would prefer not to see."
"Things like zombies and goblins and necromantic antiques dealers?" queried Kyle.
A dry laugh escaped Malcolm's lips. "Victor told you his story," he commented. "Yes. The Veil hides zombies and goblins, as well as other things beside. Wizards, gargoyles, elves, pixies, dragons and demons, to name a few."
Kyle raised a skeptical brow, but said nothing.
"We don't know how or when the Veil was originally constructed," Malcolm continued. "Some speculate that it was created to protect humanity, others so that it would hide our ancient enemies. All we do know is that the Veil clouds the minds of those who do not wish to see, making them think they are seeing something more acceptable. A hulking ogre, for example, might be viewed as simply a very large and brutish man, while, say, a hellhound would appear to be just a menacing, red-haired dog."
"That doesn't explain everything, though," Kyle insisted. "All it would take is for one of these monsters to be killed and vivisected—"
Malcolm raised a hand. "Not so. A creature born beyond the Veil returns to it when it dies. It ceases to exist in all ways."
Kyle began to speak, but stopped, collecting his thoughts.
"It is a difficult notion to grasp," confirmed Malcolm, as if reading Kyle's thoughts. "Think of it as overlapping dimensions, if you wish. One is the world you have always known, the other is the shadowy world on the other side of the Veil. For the most part, the denizens of that other realm are content to remain there, but now and then, doors are opened, either naturally or through magic. And when that happens, something slips or is drawn through."
Kyle worked his mouth. "So why was I able to see the zombies for what they were, instead of being 'clouded,' like Gina was?"
"Because you were already open to the possibility," Malcolm explained. "All you needed was the right impetus, the right scenario, and it would all fall into place. For you, the Veil has been lifted. What you do now is up to your sense of free will."
Kyle snorted under his breath. "Free will," he repeated derisively. "I'm sure you've heard all the arguments for and against that particular concept."
"Most, at least."
Kyle flexed his single hand, folding his thumb down over each digit to crack them in turn as he spoke. "I have to admit, there's a big part of me that wants to jump in feet first. Come what may and damn the risks. But there's also that part that thinks you and Victor and anyone else I've met tonight are just full of shit."
Malcolm nodded slowly. "Yet another reason why I want you on my team. An open-minded skeptic is worth his weight in gold."
Kyle shook his head with a rueful laugh. "Do I get benefits?"
Malcolm echoed the laugh, but with a more positive air. "More than you would expect."
"So how would it work? You guys have a central base, or something? A hideout? Maybe I need to learn the secret handshake before I can be admitted."
"Nothing so droll," Malcolm said. "You've already proven your worth. It is your decision to turn the pages of forbidden knowledge. As for a headquarters, our organization is necessarily rather loose. We generally meet at Shades when we need to."
"The owners don't mind?"
"No," said Malcolm with a sly smile. "I don't."
Kyle chuckled. "I shouldn't be surprised," he muttered. "So, how are you going to hide everything that happened tonight?"
"What is there to hide? A demented collector of oddities decided to dabble in selling human bodies on the black market. Some were purchased by persons unknown and used for target practice. It will be filed away as yet another strange, disturbing, but imminently forgettable event in a strange and disturbing world."
"Convenient," remarked Kyle. "How many people do you have in your little club?"
"It is far from my 'little club,' Dr. Perrin. I oversee operations in this particular area, although, from time to time, our activities do take us elsewhere. The Veil Society is old, very old, with a lineage that dates back before the Crucifixion. There are thousands of us actively involved in the society, and thousands more who act as support and sources of information."
Kyle straightened with a deep, contemplative breath. "Won't someone question my involvement here?" He tilted his head to meet Malcolm's dark, penetrating eyes.
"No," the Director said meaningfully.
Kyle nodded, accepting the implication behind the man's words. But something else was obviously on his mind.
"There's something I need to do."
Malcolm did not seem the least bit surprised. "Of course."
Another curt nod, and Kyle rose without a word. He headed down the hallway toward the elevator bank, leaving Dr. Benedict behind. Malcolm watched him go, his face stoic. From a side hallway, Victor approached, chewing a toothpick.
"Think he's gonna squirrel?"
"No. Dr. Perrin has spent too long chasing shadows. Now that he has seen what lies behind them, he can't resist the opportunity to learn as much as he can."
"Hmm," Victor grunted.
"So, your assessment." Malcolm prompted.
Victor grinned with a low chuckle. "Well, he ain't easy to scare, and he don't back down. Plus, he doesn't put up with my shit. I respect that about him."
"How about his potential as a leader?"
"Definitely there," Victor said without hesitation. "Shit. He starts off like a babe in the woods, and by the end of the night, he was calling the shots. Dude's got an instinct for this kind of thing."
Malcolm smiled slowly, as would a proud parent.
*****
There were only a few wondering pedestrians near the parked police cruisers in the valet circle, but their curiosity was abated by the presence of so many uniformed officers. Kyle hesitated a moment as he stepped through the glass doors, scanning about. A nearby patrolman approached with a professionally blasé expression on his face.
"Police business only, sir. You'll have to go around."
"I know. I just . . . I was wondering if I could talk to Gina Stiles."
The officer narrowed his eyes, looking Kyle over briefly, noting the empty sleeve hanging off the anthropologist's right shoulder. He suddenly smiled, a sheepish expression. "Dr. Perrin. Geez, sorry. Yeah, sure, she's in that cruiser right over there."
Kyle frowned for a moment, but his confusion over the sudden deference to him by the patrolman faded swiftly. "That's okay, officer," he said. "Thank you."
"No sweat, Dr. Perrin. Just let us know when she's okay to go."
"Uh, right. Sure."
Shaking his head with a wan smile, Kyle headed toward the police sedan the officer had indicated. He could see Gina's profile in the darkened back seat, and the closer he approached, the more detail he was able to discern. She looked bored, fidgety, annoyed. Kyle wondered how many times she had sat in the back of a patrol car. Not too unlikely a supposition, he knew, given her profession.
She looked up as Kyle reached the car, eyes flashing open in apprehension. Kyle jerked open the door of the sedan and slid in beside her. He propped his foot upon the inside of the car door and exhaled tiredly, not looking at her. "You all right?"
Gina nodded. "Yeah. You?"
Kyle shrugged. His conflicted mind made it hard to look upon her. Guilt, shame, vicarious pain . . . they all contributed to his recalcitrance.
"I thought I knew who you were, Kyle," she said in a small, far-away voice. "I mean, I just thought you were a guy who wrote weird books about weird stuff, sometimes helped the cops. I liked all that about you. You were different, but not in a bad way. Then tonight . . . ."
Kyle's features hardened. "Some things have changed, Gina."
She barked out a short, rude laugh. "No shit. You fucking shot that guy in the head."
He winced inwardly. "It was you or him."
"Was it?" she snapped. "Because, the way I remember it, you didn't really seem to give a flying fuck about me."
He turned his head and fixed her with a look. "You know that's not true," he said unconvincingly.
Her features twisted slightly, perhaps out of fear. "No. I really don't."
Kyle's eyes dipped. "I wasn't going to let him kill you, no matter what."
She folder her arms across her torso, a defensive move that told Kyle she was afraid. "Yeah, well, it didn't look that way to me. And what was all that shit about zombies?"
He forced a patronizing smile. "The man was crazy, Gina. I was playing to his fantasy, trying to get him to talk. That's it."
She nodded slowly, but she did not look convinced. Hands that seemed unnaturally alabaster slid up and down her bare arms. Her goosebumps were almost visible. "Never thought you could be like that," she said, her voice faint and whispering, as if speaking to herself. "You were so . . . ruthless."
Kyle gritted his teeth, silent.
Gina shifted, turning in her seat to face him. "Look at me."
Reluctantly, he did so, eyes conveying a deep sense of loss.
"First time we met, it was just business," she said. "I mean, I liked you, you were nice to me, and you really wanted to please me. I got off with you, and that doesn't happen that much anymore. After that first time, I started thinking that maybe it was time for me to stop. You know, stop hooking. For the first time in years, I started thinking that not all guys were shit."
Kyle averted his eyes, his guilty shame growing.
"Every time with you, it just got better," Gina continued. "I was really looking forward to Tuesdays because that's when I'd see you at Rudy's. I even canceled dates with regulars because they wanted to see me then. And then . . . ."
"Then I said it."
"Yeah. You said it. You said you thought you were falling for me. And that freaked me out. Wanna know why?"
He lolled his head, his features defensively dark. "I figured that went against the way it was supposed to be."
She smiled mirthlessly. "Yeah. But that's not what did it. What freaked me out was that I was falling for you, too. And hookers ain't supposed to fall for johns. But I was. I started planning on getting out. I went to Rudy's three or four times a week, just hoping to meet up with you. Even thought about calling you."
He gave her a plaintive look. "I haven't changed, Gina."
Her eyes studied him for a long moment. "Then I guess I didn't know you as well as I thought," she said.
"What if I told you that what happened tonight will never happen again?" he offered. "I can just go back to writing books--"
She squeezed her eyes shut. The emotional pain was evident upon her face. "I don't know what really happened tonight, Kyle," she said. "But . . . I'm pretty sure I saw a part of you that you can't just turn off. And I don't wanna be around that."
"I'd never abuse you," he said firmly.
"No, probably not," she conceded, looking down at her hands. "I'm not the one for you."
Kyle squeezed his eyes closed, turning away. As much as he felt his heart breaking, there was a part of him that was almost glad.
"I wanna go home, Kyle."
He nodded, curling up slightly in preparation for stepping out. He paused, lips twitching. "I'm sorry," he said.
"Yeah. Me, too."
He stepped from the car, shoving the door closed. Spying the same patrolman with whom he had spoken earlier, Kyle motioned the man over.
"Dr. Perrin?"
"She's free to go," he said in a dark voice. "Make sure she gets home safely."
"Of course, sir."
Without a backward glance, Kyle marched from the patrol car, having spied Malcolm and Victor standing upon the steps of the hotel's entrance. He stopped a few paces away from the two men, his attention focused upon Malcolm.
"I'm in."
Malcolm nodded with a thin smile. He stepped down and offered his hand. "You won't regret your decision, Dr. Perrin."
Kyle shook the man's hand and offered a fake smile. "I already do."
To be continued . . .