Monstrous- The Complete Collection

by Sawyer Black

  He’s right to hate me.

  I’m a fucking monster.

  I killed those kids! I killed his son!

  It was my fault.

  The mourning cop’s radiating hate revealed the flaws in Henry’s strategy. He wanted to get locked up, somewhere where the demon couldn’t reach him. Boothe said he was limited to only blinking into places where he’d previously been. Henry figured the police station was a safe bet, especially given its recent construction. Henry could fade from life in peace, assuming he could die. He never intended to force a grieving father into further agony by making him look upon the man he thought responsible for his son’s senseless murder.

  For a man like that, forgiveness was only a word.

  It meant letting go of a fucker’s throat, even after your fingers were sunk into his flesh. Like the grieving officer, Henry would happily murder whoever hurt, or even tried to hurt, his baby girl.

  Though time fuzzed for Henry, he figured he spent another twenty minutes alone in the room before the door finally opened to Halle Berry. At least the officer looked like Halle Berry, if she had ever been cast as a woman waging war in a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, a year of exhaustion clinging to her face. She carried a stack of paperwork and a video camera on a tripod.

  She approached Henry’s table, removed her glasses, and wiped the back of her hand across her tired eyes. She replaced the frames on the bridge of her nose and turned to Henry. “Hello. I’m Detective Rivera. And you are?”

  “John,” he lied. “John Hicks.”

  Henry used the same name that had helped him anonymously check into a hundred hotels. The dead-legend blend of John Belushi and Bill Hicks.

  “Well, Mr. Hicks,” Rivera said, sitting in the chair on the table’s opposite end. “Thank you for coming in.”

  Rivera avoided direct eye contact, instead looking down at the stack of bulging manila folders. Henry wondered if they’d really compiled a ream of paper in such a short time, on what must be minimal sightings, or if the folders were props, used to make him squirm under the weight of what they might know about him.

  Rivera’s eyes held the table as she stacked folders in a neat corner to her left, then looked up at Henry as if she’d suddenly remembered something important. “Can I get you a drink? Something to eat?”

  Her hospitality seemed almost genuine. Henry wondered how much of his freaky face she could see beneath the hoodie. He had been focusing on the shadows, drawing them toward his face. Being around an attractive woman made him want to crank the shadows even higher.

  “We’ve got a snack machine full of great junk food,” she continued.

  Even starving, Henry wasn’t looking for nourishment. He wanted his body weak, so he wouldn’t resist when they threw him in a cell. He was thirsty, though.

  “Got Coke?”

  “There’s a Pepsi machine down the hall. Will that work?”

  “Yeah,” Henry said. “Sure.”

  Rivera stood, walked to the door, and left Henry alone again. The stack of manila kept him company. He bristled at the officers still staring from their side of the mirrors. He pretended not to give a shit about the folders, keeping his chin down and eyes hidden within the shadows of his hoodie.

  Rivera returned with two Pepsis, a diet for herself and a regular for Henry. She set up the tripod and camera in front of Henry, put her thumb on record, and started the video. “Standard procedure.”

  “No problem.” He couldn’t shake the feeling that they’d been recording him from the moment he entered.

  Henry cracked the can and drank deeply. It had been too long since he’d had a soft drink. Carbonation and sugar, both better than he remembered.

  “So, Mr. Hicks, do you know why we wanted to speak with you?” Rivera popped her can and took a drink. Her voice was calm and kind. Henry figured she was probably an effective interrogator with most criminals. He would be her easiest interview ever.

  “You want to discuss the people I killed,” Henry said, as though noting nothing more than the gray of the walls. He was pleasantly surprised by a startled jolt as both Rivera and the watching men seemed to swallow their shock.

  Rivera peered into the cavity of Henry’s hoodie, maybe wondering how it could be so dark inside. “Could you be more specific?”

  Henry lifted the Pepsi to his lips, took another drink, followed the sip with a deep breath, then recounted each of the assholes he had ended. From the muggers in the alley to the vermin at White Trash Castle, from the man beating his girlfriend and the robbers at the liquor store, to both men who’d broken into his home, along with every other passage in his book of violence written since his untimely death. He actually wasn’t sure how many of the murders the cops already knew about. Regardless, Henry narrated his crimes in full detail, leaving out only what might lead to Samantha, or life lived before he lived it no longer.

  He concluded his brief but sordid recounting with, “Sorry, I didn’t catch their names, but I’ll answer any questions you have.”

  Rivera juggled surprise and suspicion, as if she’d been handed the basketball under the basket, but thought it might explode. Her face was missing its smile, but Henry had felt her fighting its presence as he emptied his memory’s violent contents into the room.

  Rivera leaned forward when he finished. “Burg Spires Church of Hope. What happened there?”

  Henry shook his head. “That wasn’t me.”

  A blaze of anger burst from the other side of the mirror, followed by a thud against the glass, and a flash of excruciating pain. As the dead boy’s father punched the wall, Henry winced at a phantom pain in his knuckles. Agony floated on a current, tempting Henry like freshly fried donuts.

  He swallowed more soda, holding the can to his lips as Rivera spoke.

  “But you were at the Spires the night of the massacre, correct?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Why were you there?”

  “When I killed the last man I told you about, he told me I was too late and that they were gonna hit the church.”

  “Too late? For what?”

  “He only said they were gonna hit the church and that I couldn’t stop them.”

  “Why would he think you’d want to? Did you know this man?”

  “He took something from me.”

  “What did he take from you, Mr. Hicks?”

  “My family.” Henry had considered lying, but figured there was no way they’d know who he was, even after he showed his malformed face. His fingerprints weren’t on file, even if they were unchanged since his transformation.

  “What do you mean they took your family?”

  “He and the man in the van, they killed my family.”

  “When?”

  Rivera wanted specifics, but Henry had to pull back, be less candid. “It doesn’t matter. They must’ve known I was the so-called Hooded Angel from the news, and that I was onto them.”

  “Who were you onto?” Rivera asked.

  “The people who shot up the church.”

  “Do you know who they are?”

  “No.”

  “Yet, they hurt your family, and you somehow found them. Something’s not adding up, Mr. Hicks.”

  “I don’t know why these people targeted me.”

  “So how did you come to find them?”

  Henry smiled, though he didn’t think Rivera could see it in the shadows. “They came looking for me,” he said, though in truth only one came looking, and for Samantha rather than him. “But I was waiting this time. That was only two of them, though. I’m not sure how many more there are.”

  “Did you see anyone suspicious at the church? The men responsible for the Burg Spires massacre?”

  “No, ma’am. Once I arrived, the cops were everywhere. I was too late. Like the killer had said.”

  “So, why did you run when you bumped into one of our officers?”

  “I watch the news. I know you’re after me, about my other … activities.” He let the word
crawl smugly from his mouth, so they’d smile even wider when locking his ass in a cell.

  “We wanted to speak with you.”

  “No. You want to arrest me. And I’m fine with that. I’m here, after all. So please, let’s get this over with. Is there something you need me to sign?”

  Rivera’s cell phone vibrated from her pocket.

  “Hold on.” Rivera stood, taking her Diet Pepsi, and approaching the door. “I’ll be right back.”

  Rivera left Henry alone with the folders on the table and the camera’s red light. Officers stewed, angry and certain Henry had something to do with the Burg Spire shootings. Blinded by rage and hungry for an arrest that would stick. They wanted John Hicks to pay and settle the debt in their heads.

  Henry would have loved to ease their minds, especially Mike Stone’s, but he wasn’t willing to make a false confession. The fuckers who did the killing had to be found and brought to justice. Surrendering his pursuit of the third murderer was bad enough. He had to give the police a chance to find the cult raining chaos on the sane.

  He wanted to help, and considered telling the cops about the tattoos, or maybe some of the shit Pastor Owen passed to him back at the Spires, but Henry had no idea how to steer the police so they were tracking the right cocksuckers inside the cult, rather than some poor fucker trying to recover from meth. Or worse.

  As Henry waited, wondering about the folders’ contents and fighting everything inside him not to grab them before anyone could stop him, he heard a familiar, impossible voice.

  “Master Henry! Master Henry!”

  Ezra?

  Henry looked around the interrogation room, but as expected, found only his reflection and a closed door.

  “Yes, it’s me, Master Henry,” Ezra repeated, as if answering his thought.

  Henry slowly realized the voice was only in his head.

  “Master Henry?”

  What?

  If Ezra was in his head, Henry figured the goll must be able to hear his thoughts. Henry remembered Boothe telling him that Ezra could instantly reach him if something was wrong. Perhaps he and the goll had a similar bond.

  A sudden chill froze his insides.

  Why are you contacting me, Ezra? Did Boothe tell you to?

  “No, Master Henry. It’s your wife, Samantha. She just went away in an ambulance.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “What?” Henry said, this time out loud, so startled that he forgot about the listening cops until after the words were already out of his mouth.

  Oh well, they’ll think I’m crazy.

  “What, Master Henry? Who will think you crazy?”

  What happened to Sam?

  “She took pills. Lots of pills. I felt her slipping away.”

  What?

  “She was trying to die. But Boothe called ambulance. She’s on her way to the hospital.”

  Ezra’s voice sounded different in his head, more clipped and foreign, like someone struggling with English. He wondered if Ezra had somehow regressed, since he didn’t seem to speak this way before, or if it was a limitation of their telepathy, offering a rawer version of Ezra in person. Or perhaps the goll spoke differently when scared. And he seemed terrified at the moment.

  How is she? Is she okay?

  “I don’t know, Master Henry. You need come home. Where are you?”

  Jail.

  “What? Why?”

  No reason, Ezra.

  “Boothe said you have to come home.”

  Why didn’t he contact me?

  “He can’t, Master Henry. Only I.”

  Henry was sick to his stomach. Sam clearly didn’t see recent events as a “darkness before the dawn,” but rather a permanent midnight. And one she might never wake from.

  I should’ve done something sooner. I should’ve seen this coming!

  Now he had surrendered himself to the cops. Trapped, worn, and stuck inside an interrogation room.

  Fuck! Fuck!

  “What, Master Henry?”

  Tell Boothe I’m in jail. I turned myself in and can’t get out. I need his help.

  Henry strained to hear something more from Ezra, but the connection was dead and the goll had fallen silent. The door to Henry’s room opened. A man entered, his eyes swollen and bloodshot.

  Mike Stone.

  Fuck.

  “You son of a bitch.” He quietly closed the door behind him.

  Then he went straight to the camera and killed the red light.

  Henry raised his hands. “I didn’t do it, man. I swear.”

  The officer was stocky. He looked and strong, with short brown hair and a square face reddened from anger. He slammed his palms on the table and growled, “Cut the shit!”

  Ezra’s voice wormed back into Henry’s head.

  “Master Boothe said you’re on your own. He can’t help you.”

  Fuck! Tell him if he doesn’t, they’re gonna kill me.

  The cop’s eyes were on Henry’s. “You’re gonna talk. And you’re gonna tell me everything you know.”

  Henry’s heart pounded in his chest, raw anger stirring inside him. Responding to the man’s rage. A familiar hunger urged him to murder the man. Inhale his sorrow and leave him for dead.

  Kill him, and I’ll have the power to get out.

  No reason to wait.

  I gotta move before they lock my ass in a cell.

  Henry shook the urgency from his mind.

  No, I can’t kill him. He’s a victim, too. He’s been through so much, already.

  Whatever Stone had been through was replaced by the officer grabbing Henry’s hoodie and yanking the fabric back, exposing his misshapen head. Stone flinched, but just barely. Henry could feel the watchers recoil in a wave of shared disgust. They’d seen the pictures, but nothing prepared them for the monstrosity up close.

  The cop pressed an index finger into the table, tapping to punctuate his words. “Tell me, now, Hicks. Who’s responsible for the shootings?”

  “I swear,” Henry pled, his voice growing brittle. “I’m telling the truth. I don’t know who these people are, or why they did it.”

  Ezra crackled back into Henry’s head.

  Master Boothe said he can’t help you. He said you’re on your own.

  Goddammit.

  Henry sighed even as the cop paced the room, either trying to intimidate him or control his own anger. The officer’s aura was dark. Black, with deep-blooming reds, almost purple, churning in a billow around him.

  Kill him. Kill him now. Find Sam.

  Then what? So what if I find Sam? How can I possibly help her?

  I’m gonna stick to the plan and stay put.

  The cop stepped behind Henry, then leaned forward, close enough that Henry could smell his hot coffee-breath and feel his boiling rage as a physical sensation. Stone probably meant to intimidate. He didn’t realize that was feeding Henry instead.

  “You’ve already admitted to enough murders to earn the electric chair three times over. What’s another few?”

  “Nothing, if I had done it.” His voice trembled as he tried controlling hunger and anger in unison. “But I didn’t.”

  Kill him. Kill him and bust the fuck out. Now!

  The cop stepped away from Henry, moving around the room until he was back in front of the table. Stone struggled to look calmer, smoothing his shirt and nodding his head. “Okay, let’s say you had nothing to do with this, and maybe, maybe I can believe that. But I’m not buying you don’t know who did. There were three people dressed in black hoodies and dark jeans. Same as you. So, what the fuck is that, some sorta freaky coincidence? Because in my line of work, the most obvious assumption is almost always the right one.”

  “I have no idea why,” Henry said. “These fuckers, the same fuckers who killed those people in the church, killed my daughter and raped my wife. They deserve to die. I want to end every last one of them. Why in the fuck would I join them and murder more innocent families? Why would I help them kill othe
r children?”

  Henry realized he’d said too much as the cop’s eyes met his. There were a finite number of recent crimes that fit those parameters, especially where one of the victim’s bodies went missing. Details like that couldn’t, and wouldn’t, be ignored. How long until they realized it was the supposedly dead Henry Black who was sitting in their interrogation room?

  He could imagine the media trumpeting the story. One of the country’s most famous comics, now a hideous freak with a bottomless appetite for murder.

  The door opened and Rivera entered.

  Go. Now! This is your chance.

  Henry leapt to his feet, shoved Rivera into Stone, and raced out the door.

  “STOP!” Rivera screamed.

  Henry had no intention of stopping, even though he was weak and slow. Even though he couldn’t shift into shadow form — something Boothe had promised he’d be able to do with barely a breath left.

  Fucking Boothe!

  Henry raced down the corridor toward the lobby. He’d have to flee the station, run out into the parking lot, and hope like Hell they didn’t seal the exit gate before he could flee.

  The door at the far end of the hall shot open. Three officers spilled into the corridor, blocking his path. Behind him, Henry heard Stone and Rivera fast approaching, followed by more from the viewing room.

  He was trapped.

  He had to move.

  Henry ran at the three cops, reaching out to shove them aside. Instead, he was sent to the floor under strong arms, fists, and then, intense pain as one of the officers tasered him.

  Henry screamed. If this was phantom pain, his brain still needed the memo.

  The officers on top of him let loose a station’s worth of fury — fists and feet in a violence that only seemed encouraged by Henry’s hideous form.

  He could feel their hate, anger, and fear soaking into him. Horrible … but wonderful, too. Like freshly grilled meat for a famished body. Even as the pain increased, so did the ecstasy, making for a bizarre but beautiful blend. Confusing, yet empowering. Making Henry stronger.