Scratch Lines

by Elizabeth Blake

  Frustrated, I gave up and peeled back some layers of the vast info-cloud that would welcome my attention, like banking data networks. Durant didn't keep much money in the system, however, and converted large sums to cash on a bimonthly basis. She depleted her mundane stock portfolio as often as she paid into it, and had a lawyer who kept too many paper records. Other than a few—okay, several—dropped assault charges, I didn't learn anything new about her past. Pristine income tax records. She'd also removed all trackers from her vehicle.

  The woman was clearly involved in routine mischief.

  Credit cards are an investigator's friend. The world loves them. I love them. At least, I love other people's credit because it creates a monetary map of their lives. Purchases characterize a person, and Durant's shopping habits told me little I didn’t know. Caffeine addict, can't cook, reads a slow but steady stream of nonfiction, orders MMA fights on pay-per-view, and hasn't shopped for clothes in forever. Buys more first aid supplies than beauty products, orders the same pair of steel toe boots online, and stocks .38, .45, .22 ammunition of the non-silver variety. The last bit of information meant Miss Kaidlyn Durant was scared of more than werewolves.

  Useful information.

  None of it was incriminating, but no one could convince me she wasn’t doing some extremely compromising things.

  I retrieved raw video of her exiting a local gym and noted odd textures on her throat, which led me to review her unbelievable med records again, simply because they were so unbelievable. She'd been mauled more than a chew toy but hid the scars well.

  I tried to find her black market supplier, hoping it was someone I knew, but I learned nothing. It was as if the person didn't exist, or worst, was cyber-phobic. Tracking someone off the grid would require legs on the ground. I tapped a few contacts inside the network to see if my fellow pirates knew anything.

  The buzzer rang.

  I scanned the security cameras in the street and alleys surrounding my underground lair. The bunker ran beneath my porn store, a bar, and a titty club. Then I scoured the store’s interior. My friend waited, carrying a small package. No suspicious characters. Or rather, no unusual suspicious characters. I typed in the security code which allowed Marc downstairs.

  When the door slid open, Marc entered. He bore odors.

  Grease, sweat, sweet and sour booze, and the canine perfume of my guard dog, Rufus. The combination went straight to my gut. I felt like bursting up the stairs. Running free. Ranting. Raving. Killing.

  I shook my head and grabbed my seat.

  Marc’s hot pink SECURITY shirt glowed against his dark skin. He tossed me a fat carton full of protein bars. The two dozen sticks of chocolaty goodness meant I wouldn't have to cook my next meal.

  “Rainer, I need a room.”

  A thickness rode his vowels. A tremble grabbed his veins. Light reflected off his black eyes and shaved head. Anger dripped from his agitated heart and fluttering breath, and its passion was contagious. Without know why he was mad, I started to share his rage.

  A few spots of blood marked his sleeve.

  I needed him out of my sight.

  He stormed across the bunker with long strides and opened the freezer, talking at me through the blast of chilly air.

  “Blood spill in the club,” he said. “A stupid asshole made a touchy pass and grabbed Sequin so hard she's got bruises. I try to get the jackass to stand down like a goddamn respectable douche bag, but he's carrying a blade. Swipes at me vato-style.”

  Carrying a hundred-pound sack of chickens, he slammed the cooler and slapped the release button for one of the changing rooms. The metal door opened, giving him access to the secure cement cell.

  “Don't let me out until tomorrow.”

  “Not a problem,” I said.

  The door clanged shut. His growls grew loud and rough. The sound boiled my blood and turned my stomach. Starving, I tore open the cardboard container, grabbed a protein bar, tore the wrapper, and shoved the entire thing in my mouth. My throat convulsed, swelled, and seized while the lykos howled and roared in the next room.

  Chapter 7

  A night shift at the bureau meant sleeping in, doing body-weight exercises for an hour, showering if I was in the mood, and possibly laundry. Maybe not laundry. It wasn't like all those bloodstains were actually coming out. After my workout, I showered without shampooing my wet hair and decided to buy coffee from a shop instead of cleaning the grounds out of my pot and making my own.

  I drove with the windows down and wind humming through the jeep while my stereo blasted percussive death metal. I screeched into a coffee shop and ordered the darkest, tallest coffee with a side of two blueberry muffins. It was payday, so when the lady swiped my card and said, “It's declined,” I needed a moment for that to sink in.

  “Check again. I have money.”

  The clerk didn't believe me.

  “These machines are pretty accurate,” she said with a superior tone. I considered arguing but didn’t want to hold up the line and allow others to witness my embarrassment. Luckily, I carried cash for emergencies.

  Coffee qualifies as an emergency.

  Mortified, I yanked a bill out of my wallet and slapped it on the counter. Red heat touched my cheeks as I waited for change. The stockpile of emergency funds under the sink was about to see some depletion.

  And the day had started so well.

  My phone danced in my pocket, announcing a police consultation. Murder has no respect for moments of leisure. Sucking down coffee, I sped like an angry wasp, thinking about money. Seriously, what the hell? Not even enough funds for over-priced mediocre coffee?

  The crime scene spread alongside the highway. Reporters crowded the perimeter, trying to capture sensational pictures. Approaching the scene, I couldn't see anything newsworthy. Before I could slip by, reporters recognized me.

  “Durant! Miss Durant,” one said, chumming the water. They circled, perfect white teeth bared, trying to chomp newsbytes out of me. Cameras clicked as I ducked under crime scene tape.

  The nearest LEO was old and on-the-verge-of-retirement tired.

  “Who is in charge?” I said.

  “Breyers,” he said. I missed a step and he reached to help me.

  “I'm good.” My tone stopped him short.

  Breyers specialized in child homicide.

  I squinted and picked him out of the crowd. He looked like a wayward literature professor, complete with little spectacles that drifted down his nose. His full head of white hair was flawlessly coiffed. Despite his vanity, he wasn't a bad guy.

  Unfortunately, he hung out with dead children.

  “Durant, what brings you out?” He had a Santa Claus voice.

  “PD called. Where's the blood? This is a mutt attack, right?”

  He frowned. “Well, you tell me.”

  “Let's see it.” Get it over with.

  “Shall we?” he said, as if we were on an evening stroll.

  I tagged along, stepping over the flat, baked field. The spiny brush was intermittent with cholla cacti, which we deftly avoided. Orange evidence cards lay scattered. Knowing I was about to look at a child's body, part of me shriveled up in the corner and whined, why me? A grisly truth: I didn't often have to see child remains. Children, especially infants, were tragically bite-size. Not a lot of leftovers. This was different and not consistent with mutt attacks. Already I noted too many evidence cards on too neat a scene.

  No blood, just parts.

  Breyers led me past a torso hacked off at neck, below the shoulders, and at the waist. Guts spilled out among the brush. A child’s pieces laid in the dirt, nipples surrounded by deep bruising. The circular bites were not big enough to be made by a mutt.

  Human bite marks.

  My hand went automatically to my throat.

  “Not going to puke, are you?” Breyers said.

  No, but I would have paid ten grand to punch him in the face.

  “Bite marks are too small and dull,” I said. “Ev
en a boxer or a Rottweiler has a larger and messier bite than this. The limbs are clearly not severed by teeth. What the hell am I doing here?”

  “Beats me. Maybe you need a closer look.”

  He gave me some gloves and pushed aside brush so I could see it, a limb sans joints and phalanges, smaller than my forearm, as big around as a cucumber. I didn't know what to make of it.

  “Femur,” he said. “Five year-old male.”

  I swallowed the acidic rise of coffee.

  I hate dismembered bodies that still look like perfect people parts. I knelt down, not to get close to the limb as much as to look closer at the ground. No blood splatters, no pools, a small drip at the limb. The murderer had drained the body well before he tossed the parts out an open window as he drove down highway 101.

  I touched the edges of meat, poked at the bone. Clean. No teeth marks. No claw tears. No savaged flesh on the bloody ends.

  “It's not mutt,” I said.

  “You're sure?”

  “Teeth didn't separate these bones. Maybe a saw.”

  “Want to see the rest of them? Pieces are scattered all about. Enough for two boys. The torsos are around the bend, if you've got the guts to see them.” He laughed. “Guts.”

  Goddamn Breyers.

  “This isn't a mutt kill.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Yeah, I bet.”

  If it had been a mutt scene, he would be off the case. Now he could appear on the news and play the reassuring hero.

  “Same M.O. as the last one,” he said. “Two weeks ago, another two boys were abused, killed, and disposed of in a similar manner.”

  Serial killer? Serial killers made for great publicity. They used three names, their faces became legends, and the person who caught them would be famous. Or promoted. Which explained the special twinkle in Breyers’ eyes. I yanked off the gloves and slapped them into his palm.

  “This was a waste of my time.” I turned on my heel.

  Now I'd have chopped off children's limbs dancing in my head all day.

  The officers were kind enough to push reporters out of my way. I locked myself in the jeep, picked up my phone, and dialed Sarakas. I could hear him flipping papers in the background.

  “Don't bother going to the crime scene. It wasn't a mutt. Someone's pushing to make it a goat.” Goat, as in scapegoat. Why let the human reputation suffer if monsters can take the blame?

  “Bad scene?”

  “Lots of kid pieces.”

  He went quiet. We had seen some pretty nasty bits.

  “I got coffee,” he said.

  “I'll be there soon.” I hung up.

  I had a few hours before check in but couldn't possibly go home and relax.

  If PD pinned these murders on the next mutt found near a child's body, the real Mr. Human-likes-to-hack-up-kids would be free to sip tea near a playground and plot his next excursion. My temperature rose.

  “What the heck.”

  It was a horrible way to start a Monday. Showering gravel, I spun out of the lot and went to the office. I stormed past the gate and waited unsuccessfully for an over-crowded elevator. I couldn't stand still. Despite my morning workout, I rampaged up the stairs on throbbing thighs.

  Injustice propelled me forward. Also, I thought about money, where it might disappear to and how to get it back. Maybe just a glitch? Yeah, right. Things in my life aren't allowed the levity of being random. Like how a consultation call was about vilifying a whole group of creatures and not about actually catching a child-killer. By the top of the stairs, I accepted my helplessness in that particular scenario. I decided to ignore what I couldn't fix and focus on what I could.

  Willful ignorance can be the best course of action.

  The Gargoyle sat at his desk, elbow resting on a stack of reports as he shifted a toothpick around his mouth.

  “How did the review go?” I said.

  Vincent pointed at the paperwork. “Desk for a week.”

  Not bad for shooting a civilian on live television.

  “I saw the news report covering a 'particularly abhorrent mutt attack' off the 101. Your face is all over the news again, princess,” Vincent said. “You get any more famous and there won’t be a place you can go without scaring mutts out of the woodwork.”

  “I never said it was mutt related.” Sighing, I sank into my chair. Sarakas gave me a little smile, a failed attempt to make me feel better.

  I couldn’t convincingly deny mutt involvement after my picture ran on the newsfeed. Media myth became as fact. With the new murder blamed on mutts, we could expect emotional backlash from the public about how we weren't doing our job and protecting humanity, blah blah.

  “Bad scene?” Yvonne said, carrying enough paperwork to sink the Titanic. Her chic suit shamed my tee shirt with sweat rings under the pits.

  “Ugly enough, but not a mutt scene.”

  “Are you sure? If it was as awful as the reports say, what else could it be?”

  “It isn't uncommon for a mutt to get blamed for ugly crimes. Lykos are scapegoats for a slew of unpleasant things, and the public is never the wiser.”

  “If you say so,” she said.

  Yvonne was not my favorite person, through no fault of her own. If we'd met outside of work, I might think she was okay. A little too cheerful but decent company. She'd been assigned to our team for one reason: me.

  Rookies didn't survive long in our division. FBHS dropout rate was three of seven, but most don't live longer than three months. Our rookie death rate was sixty percent. Very bad odds. Theatrics and emotionalism gather a lot of recruits, but most don’t stay long after they see a mutt shed in real life. Put them in a room with a scary mutt and their tremendous soundtrack, and it was a recipe for sobbing, pissing recruits.

  Yvonne survived her first few months, but she hadn't found the stomach for it. Victims distracted her and she had trouble remembering the objective. She didn’t understand that sometimes agents have to let the wounded suffer (even die) so we could kill the target and prevent others from suffering and dying. She arrived with God in her heart and expected to save everybody. She was beginning to learn happy endings were improbable, maybe even impossible. She'd lost eight kilos since taking the job and wouldn't survive unless something snapped or clicked into place.

  Watching me kill wouldn't cure her. At best, I could keep her alive long enough for her to quit.

  The bureau wanted me to soften Vincent and harden Yvonne. I felt like a death-row babysitter.

  She smelled like roses and worked a job that reeked of entrails.

  Eventually, I'd be attending her Southern Baptist funeral.

  Hate funerals. I had stopped going. There were too many and I couldn’t remember their names. Embarrassing, to say the least.

  Yvonne sat at her desk. Her long hair was twisted into double helix spirals with the girth of a pencil. Today she wore a scarf around her head that made her look like an upscale pirate. Her cream jacket and tan trousers made her richly colored skin glow all the more attractively. Classy, ladylike.

  I hoped she didn't get blood all over that ensemble.

  Our final team member arrived. He wore a light blazer over his guns and blue polo shirt.

  Keats was a good person. Great, actually. Loved his wife, paid his taxes, called his mother regularly, and brought doughnuts twice a week. Model citizen. Too good. Too model of a citizen. I didn't trust him.

  “You're riding with Keats today,” Vincent told me. “Yvonne, you're with Sarakas.”

  I snatched a coffee. Another muffin wouldn't hurt. I had taken the stairs, after all. I shrugged into the bulletproof vest and munched on the blueberry muffin.

  “I'm driving,” Keats said.

  “C'mon, let me drive. I'm in the middle of an Amon Amarth marathon.”

  “Is that a new Christian band?”

  “You'll enjoy it.” I lied and tried not to snicker at his skeptical expression. “Besides, you drove last time.”

  “
Fine.”

  We left to find an enormous huddle of agents waiting for the elevator.

  “Gotta be kidding,” I said.

  “Let's take the stairs.”

  I groaned, but it was either that or wait to share a crowded elevator with my sweaty compatriots. I finished my muffin with a vengeance and apologized in advance to my sore legs.

  We entered the quiet, empty stairwell. Our footsteps echoed.

  “Our kill numbers are down for the first time in three years,” Keats said. “A few techs are hypothesizing that we've reached the crest of the infestation and it'll all be downhill from here. Last night, I chatted with my wife and she said, 'Chad, does that mean that Christopher and Emily won't have to worry about the monsters when they're old enough for school?’ Could you imagine? What if we have come through the worst of the storm? Someday we will eliminate all L-pos contaminants. It seems impossible.”

  “It does.”

  “I can't wait for the day when I can tell Emily that mutts are monsters of the past, like an old-time fairytale.”

  The girl would never see the day. No one would. The infestation was too deep, too hard to shake, like roaches that can live through everything we throw at them. No matter what, a few will survive to carry on. That’s the nature of disease. The nature of evil, as well.

  “I imagine as a parent you want your kids to be safe. In the meantime, Keats, I think it'd be best to teach them how to shoot a gun instead of running away and pretending monsters don't exist.”

  “If I do my job, my kids won't ever need to hold a gun.”

  I nodded because I didn't want to fight, not because he was right. While Keats clutched a fantasy, I operated in reality. His daydream concerned me, made me wonder if he was starting to mentally detach from the job.

  “It’s a nice dream,” I said. “But it ain't our job to weave fairytales. We kill the bad guys, that's our duty.”

  He grunted and raised a hand to his face.

  He had developed a tic during the past few months and touched his nose a lot, like he was about to sneeze. Maybe he was trying to seize the phantom smell of blood and rot, like he could snag the olfactory terror and flick it away like a booger. As if it was that easy. As if his kids could grow up without knowing the scent of blood.