The text read, Tyrel Lillian Boone.
Part III
Chapter 27
October 30, 2017. 06:16 A.M.
While listening to the mild background music playing at the supermarket, Tyrel picked up a twelve-pack carton that had TASTIEST! printed on it. The trip to Europe left him skint, and he had to make do with what little he had. It was ramen to the rescue, although he hated that shit as much as he hated Ricky. He wondered if the brand’s marketing department had actually chewed the soggy cup of depression before deciding to put that word on it. Did they know what tastiest meant? Like, really know? Tyrel did.
It was the marinated heart of a woman—the exquisite pan-seared meat basted with teriyaki sauce. Tyrel had performed the ritual on Mila, employing a similar induction stove and frying pan he’d used to cook Gerald’s heart.
As Tyrel walked through the aisle and headed to the cash register, his mouth salivated. He wanted to stop reminiscing, but what else could he do? He’d had his fill only two weeks ago. He should tame his gluttony for the foreseeable future if he wanted to stay under the radar.
He pulled a ten-dollar bill from his wallet and handed it over the counter. The cashier observed Tyrel’s hand curiously.
“That’s an interesting looking wallet. Where’d you get it?”
“It’s homemade,” Tyrel said.
Once he’d eaten Mila’s heart, he went to work on her hide. The skin is the heaviest thing on the human body, yet Mila’s twenty-odd-pound organ felt lighter. He bought non-iodized salt and ammonium aluminum sulfate from an online shop that sold leather and tanning products. A lot of learning curves and flushing several buckets of reddish turbid water later, he’d finally stitched a decent looking wallet.
“Can I get one like this?” the cashier said.
Too late, sweetie.
After crafting the wallet, Tyrel had ample square feet of suede left. He tried to make shoes and gloves from the leftover, but unlike the wallet, making these things was too complicated. So he shredded the surplus into millions of little fibers, stood over a bridge, and poured them into the Havel river before he boarded a flight back home.
“Unfortunately, no,” Tyrel replied. “It’s made from the skin of an extremely rare beast in Germany. Trapping and killing it is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
“Wow, man. That’s super-cool. Are you, like, a hunter or something?”
“As a hobby.” Tyrel smiled.
The cashier was in his late twenties. He had broad shoulders, thick forearms, and square jaws connected to an angular neck. Tyrel should definitely ask him out.
As he began to speak, his phone vibrated against his leg. Cursing the timing, he pulled it out. It was Shane.
Did he miss Tyrel as much as he missed Shane?
“Hello?” Tyrel said, happily, the spell the sexy cashier had cast on him already broken.
“You gotta come here, Ty.” Shane’s voice quivered.
Tyrel frowned. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“It’s Mel.” Shane sobbed. “She’s… something’s happened.”
* * *
A heart attack. How about that? One minute she was eating, and the next she was lying dead on the floor. It had taken their neighbors two days to find the yapping bitch’s absence strange. Mel had become ripe by then. When Tyrel reached Apex, the body was already embalmed and placed in the house for viewing. Shane had also called Uncle Charlie, and apparently they’d both chipped in for the funeral.
Tyrel was late because a) He couldn’t give a fuck about the rotting whore, and b) He decided to leave NYC for good, so it had taken him time to vacate the apartment. His return to Apex was because he no longer feared his ex would tell on him. If Shane had wanted to, he could have done it months ago.
On his uncle’s orders, Tyrel suited up and stood in the hall beside Mel’s casket, receiving condolences. He struggled not to roll his eyes. When a familiar wizened face approached him, he straightened.
“Her death was relatively painless,” Doctor Vikram said.
“Not what she deserved.”
“She is your mother, Tyrel. Show some goddamn respect,” the old veterinarian spat.
“Sorry, sir. Sure, I’ll remember not to piss on her grave.”
Vikram shook his head. “You haven’t forgiven her for Ben, have you?”
“I can’t forgive certain sinners. She’s the second on that list.”
“Hate is heavy baggage you hold onto with one hand when you are hanging off a cliff with the other.” Vikram squeezed Tyrel’s shoulder and left.
Again, for Uncle Charlie’s sake, Tyrel drove to the cemetery. He waited in boredom, yawned a few times, until the priest finished his sermon and the casket was lowered into the ground beside Ben’s grave. Tyrel wasn’t going to argue with his uncle over it. He owed that man his life. And Tyrel knew his dad wouldn’t only be kind enough to forgive his wife, but he would also be happy to finally have her by his side.
Then the congregation came back to the house and resumed eating and drinking. People started dispersing at around ten, including Uncle Charlie and Shane. Tyrel couldn’t wait to be alone in his dad’s house, which was a lot purer without Mel in it. He couldn’t even feel an atom of sadness. Why would he? Tyrel didn’t lose a mother, because he never had one to begin with.
* * *
The last few groups of dawdling townsfolk left when Tyrel’s cold shoulder became more apparent by the minute, and the house was finally empty. Should he first go and talk to Sandy, or see his trophies?
Tyrel poured himself a healthy measure of whiskey, went out to the backyard, and sauntered to the cellar, ice clinking in the old-fashioned glass. When he was in NYC, he thought of his skull collection every night.
While opening the cellar door, he could visualize his pieces of art in the majestic wooden box below. Excitement built inside him as he descended down the flight of stairs. But when he stepped into the dark room and flipped the lights on, his eyes deceived him. It couldn’t be.
The shoe trunk wasn’t there.
He dropped the glass and rushed to the center of the room as if having a closer look would sprout the lost artifact from a different dimension. But it didn’t. Only a broken lock lay on the floor.
Was it Mel? No, she wouldn’t have had the balls. Who would want to steal it? A random burglar? A burglar who broke into cellars? That wasn’t likely. Tyrel’s skulls had no commercial value to anyone. Financial leverage wasn’t the motive here.
Leverage…
Then the answer dawned on him—Shane.
Being the only person who knew Tyrel’s secret, he needed insurance to protect his life. So he must have rummaged through the house for something to blackmail Tyrel with, and gotten hold of the shoe trunk. Now he was keeping it as a deterrent so Tyrel wouldn’t murder him.
Tyrel’s anger was replaced with sadness and longing. Shane never truly understood his love. If Tyrel had wanted to kill him, he would have done it the day he saw Shane vomiting outside his toolshed.
He called Shane, but he didn’t answer. Tyrel sighed. Shane had stolen something that meant the world to Tyrel. But he didn’t want revenge. Instead he would forgive Shane. That’s what lovers did, right?
How about that, doc? I’m capable of letting go.
But he missed the skulls. They were the only proof and meaning of his existence. He felt an urge to just drop to the ground and never wake up again. The floor seemed comfortable and welcomed him. He accepted the invitation.
He turned on his side, hugged his knees, and cried for a long time. He thought only bullies could hurt him enough to make him weep like a spineless kid. But that night, he learned a disgruntled ex could do far worse.
* * *
An hour later, when his tear ducts were empty, he pulled himself together and got up. While wiping his grimy beard, he left the cellar, not bothering to lock it. He trudged to the house, straight to the kitchen, and grabbed a bottle of Jim Beam from the counter.
&n
bsp; He emptied half a bottle in one sip, and as he put it back, his phone went off. A video call from an unknown number. Was Shane calling him from a different phone? Tyrel swiped the green icon.
At first he couldn’t make sense of the thing staring out of the phone screen. Then after a few moments of confusion, he got it. It was a man in a black suit, wearing a white rabbit mask. The camera showed only his head and chest.
“Hello, Boone.” A mellow voice filled the room.
“H-hi?” Tyrel said.
The guy’s background spewed bright orange light, making him a silhouette outlined by an alien glow.
“Call me Mr. Bunny.”
In spite of being sad about losing his skull collection, Tyrel couldn’t help smirking.
“That’s a shocker. Aren’t you a day early and decades too old to celebrate Halloween?” He chuckled. “How’d you get my number, creepo?”
“That’s funny, Boone. You flay women and rob their skin, impale men with javelins, and still you have the audacity to call me a creep? I’m sure the hypocrisy isn’t lost on you.”
As soon as Tyrel deciphered what the man had said, he became sober. Everything around him zoomed out, while the mother of all vertigos tried to pull him down. His breath caught in his chest, throat dried, and heart redlined.
When he could finally move, he inched his clammy thumb to the red circle icon on the phone’s screen and hung up. Tyrel was experiencing something he hadn’t felt since he saw Sandy pinned under Ricky’s shoe—unadulterated terror.
Who knew his secret? It couldn’t be Shane. He didn’t know about Germany and Canada. Who else? Cops? No. If it were them, they would have arrested him, not called and warned him. And they sure didn’t dress up in creepy outfits.
A feeble chime severed his chain of thoughts, and a new message popped up on his phone. From the same number. As a dozen shivers ran down his spine, he opened the text.
You hang up again, I’m ratting on you and within an hour SWAT will swing a battering ram at your front door.
Tyrel’s stomach knotted. The phone warmed in his cold sweaty hand as it rang again with a video call. He swallowed and answered it, but didn’t speak.
“You look like a cartoon character that drains of color and becomes white,” Mr. Bunny said. “Your lizard brain sees me as a threat. Naturally the blood flow to the skin is diverted to your legs, shoulders, etcetera, so it turns pale. And cold. Theoretically the redirected blood should help you sprint. Help you escape. But please understand that running away isn’t an option in this scenario. I’ll always find you.”
“Look forward to meeting you,” Tyrel said.
He was scared, but he could still beat this skinny shit easily.
“Be smart and stop the animosity. I’m not trying to hurt you.”
“Then what are you trying to do?”
“I believe you are a fitting candidate to impart my knowledge to. I want to teach you a set of dogmas that will make you impervious to police investigations. Consider this a tipping point in your life.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? What do you want?”
Mr. Bunny let out a burst of smooth laughter. “It’s not about what I want. It’s about what you need. You don’t know this, but right now I’m changing the course you’ve set yourself on, which ends in your doom. In a distant future, some smart detective is going to find you and arrest you, and at this very moment I’m saving you from that future.”
Shane’s warning blinked in Tyrel’s mind. “Who are you? And how can you help me?”
“Like you, I’m an itinerant killer. At least, that’s what I aim to become. I have decades of knowledge in that avenue, and I can help you by offering you that knowledge.”
If a freak like Mr. Bunny could find him, then the cops couldn’t be farther away. It made him nervous. Though North Carolina technically practiced the death penalty, it wasn’t implemented anymore. If Tyrel was jailed, he would have to suffer his hunger until the day he died of old age. Or worse, he might lose his sanity and sink his teeth into his own flesh. He shuddered at the thought.
“Fine,” he said. “What’s that knowledge going to do for me?”
Better to accept this guy’s help. And it wasn’t like he had any choice.
“The power to be a serial killer and never get caught.”
“You mean, never get identified?”
“No, I said caught. You’ve screwed yourself when you crossed borders to have fun. This misstep is irredeemable. Police will identify you. It’s just a matter of when.”
Beads of sweat had broken out on Tyrel’s forehead.
“Not all is lost, though,” Mr. Bunny said. “There is still hope.”
“Really? I don’t see it.”
“Because you are myopic. You lack the skill to foresee far-off problems and their solutions.”
“Well, then, tell me how. And in simple language. I wouldn’t have understood half of what you said if not for the context.”
Mr. Bunny laughed again. “All right. This is the game plan. I’m going to coach you in the mechanics of serial killing, and if you do well, I will get you a new life.”
“That’s not very convincing. If the detectives identify me, they’ll have my photo. That means I’m screwed forever.”
“Why do you think there is such a thing as the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted Fugitives? Many on that list were identified and have their photos plastered around the world, but they’ve never been apprehended. Let’s do a thought experiment that will buoy your spirits up a little, shall we?”
Tyrel nodded.
“Can you remember any criminal’s face you’ve seen on TV? Caught or uncaught, doesn’t matter. Just one face of some random criminal?”
Tyrel tried. That morning, on his flight to Raleigh, he had been watching the news on his phone. It played one of those helicopter news reports of a high-speed pursuit in Massachusetts, which ended when the robber abandoned his car, ran across the freeway, and had his legs crushed by the police pursuit vehicle. The incident was unforgettable because of the broken femurs, but not the miscreant’s face.
Shit. Mr. Bunny had a point. He could picture Bundy or Al Capone, or Tyrel’s favorite, Omar Little, or someone infamous like that, but not any other criminal. His mind’s eye couldn’t even bring up the image of The Taco Bell Strangler who had dominated the news networks of the Carolinas in the mid-90s. Tyrel bit his lips since he couldn’t answer, but felt better.
“Thought so, Boone.”
“All right, Mr. Bunny. I’m up for the makeover if you are one hundred percent sure I’ll get identified.”
“There is simply no way you cannot get caught with the evidence you’ve left. If a cop properly uses his head meat—and trust me, there are some resolute detectives out there who live only to catch guys like us—then, yes, you are done for.”
“Okay. Thanks a lot for the heads up. So when do we meet?”
Tyrel didn’t like the high-sounding way Mr. Bunny spoke, but the guy knew his trade. How else could he have found the truth about Tyrel when the cops had failed to do so for twenty years?
Mr. Bunny tsk-tsked, shaking his head. “Look, Boone. Let’s get some things out of the way. One, we are never ever going to meet. I know you can kill me before I even know what’s happening. I’m not stupid enough to jump into a lion’s den and fight it.”
The guy was careful, but that wasn’t Tyrel’s intention. But he felt proud of scaring Mr. Bunny.
“Now, that said. Number two, I’m way smarter than you assume. Lion or tiger or T. rex, you are still an animal. A strong and dangerous animal, but an animal, nonetheless, whose savagery is embarrassingly predictable, and hence can easily be subjugated.”
Tyrel scowled. Had this bastard just insulted him?
“The sooner you realize that and stop trying doltish shenanigans, the better. From what I’ve learned about you so far, primal violence is your reductive cure-all, but that won’t work on me. Your unhinged animalistic fury will have a
n adverse effect only on you when it’s unleashed between us.”
The snooty fucker was indeed insulting him. Tyrel’s lips became a thin line. Now he was angry beyond control. But he couldn’t do anything to Mr. Bunny. Helpless and cornered, he used all his frustration and strength to hurl his phone at the wall.
It was a full minute before his senses came back to him.
When his breathing was calm, Tyrel walked over to the pathetic pieces of electronics scattered on the floor. The flickering screen was completely dark at the bottom half, but the top was fine. Fine, as in Tyrel could see Mr. Bunny’s frozen image. It still had deep cracks on its surface, which extended up to the bezel. As he doubled over and retrieved the phone, powdered glass rolled down from its shattered display.
Tyrel jumped when the phone’s speaker emitted a robotic voice.
“I rest my case,” Mr. Bunny said.
Tyrel could sense an arrogant smirk behind that stupid mask.
“So are we good to go?”
Lost and embarrassed, Tyrel stiffly nodded.
A Faustian deal, but he had no option. For some reason, the word Mephistopheles popped in his mind.
“That’s kosher. Later, Boone.”
Then the screen went fully dark.
Chapter 28
December 28, 2017. 08:56 P.M.
Tyrel was on PETA’s website, watching yet another mass murder—whaling. The gentle giants were harpooned, their spilled-out insides undulating on crimson waves as they writhed in agony. But wait… were the intestines wriggling irrespective of the water’s movement?
A minute of online sleuthing later, he’d found that their insides were not only guts, but also underdeveloped calves. Two hundred minke whales slain that year were pregnant.
A techno jingle started playing, and the Skype window popped up in front of the browser. He didn’t have to direct his saturated eyes to the bottom corner of the screen to know it was nine o’clock sharp. His new friend was a reliable perfectionist.
Inhuman: Detective Chase hunts an animal who protects his own Page 16