Dance of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  Gnegon then nods, and the man on Maral’s right pulls a Glock 17 from within his jacket, pointing it and firing two close-range shots into the lieutenant’s head, effectively ending any writhing and groaning, the bullets impacting their target, causing a noticeable eruption of blood and other internal matter.

  The steely-eyed crime boss looks down at the dead lieutenant, the moment of silence stretching, then he finally sighs audibly, a forced exhale of breath through his nose.

  “Get to it, then,” he orders, and others join in to help picking up the corpse for disposal, also cleaning the area of any signs of the punishment that has just occurred.

  *****

  They are out in a nearby park area, enjoying each other’s company, again strolling leisurely, somewhat taking note as the day reluctantly gives up its hold.

  “So, lots of fresh berries, then, hmm?” he iterates, smiling warmly.

  “Yes, I miss that from my home,” she replies, smiling just as pleasantly, “I used to be able to go not far from my front door and pick all sorts of wild berries. It was nice.”

  She looks out toward the setting sun as she says this, and he notes a slightly melancholic tinge to her expression, especially as brought out by the reflection of light on her shimmering eyes. Whatever it may have been is gone when she blinks, though he dared not disturb this moment for her. She then turns to look at him, her smile brightening, and he cannot help but return the infectious expression.

  “Do you like dancing?” she asks.

  “Oh, yes, very much so, though I have not received any formal training in it,” he informs as they resume their walk.

  “I have, but it was just part of the curriculum at school, basic dances and moves,” she explains, then grins further, “I start everyday with some music and fun dancing, though. It gets my motor running.”

  His grin increases sharply at this, and she eventually pauses, looking up at him, smirking.

  “What?” she demands, though the tail end of the word is more drawn out than sharp.

  “You are adorable,” he answers, gazing fully upon her.

  “No,” she says, looking away, a blush taking her cheeks as she smiles deeply.

  “I’m afraid so,” he smirks, speaking with mock seriousness, and she looks up at him, a similar playful twist now also on her lips.

  They make their way to a stone bench, hardly anyone else out in the area, despite the nice weather, sitting in the middle, right next to each other. He extends an arm, wrapping it about her shoulders, and she accepts this, leaning in toward him. They spend a short measure of time like this, just experiencing one another’s closeness, looking out over the colorful sky.

  “I would like to tell you something about the book,” he eventually speaks, and his tone is enough like a serious pronouncement that she sits up from where she had drifted into a comfortably relaxed state, resting against him.

  “Okay?”

  “It is one of three,” he informs.

  She blinks, obviously pondering this, bewildered, eyes moving away as she drifts into the annals of her mind before re-focusing on him.

  “I understood there to be only the one copy. There are three?”

  “Oh, no,” he quickly expounds, “It is part of a trilogy.”

  “Oh,” she says, the word drawn out into a whispering suggestion of contemplation before she again returns her focus, “I didn’t know that, either,” and he waits as she appears to again be thinking deeply, then she looks into his eyes, “How could this not be known? Well, obviously you know it, but that is in none of the major listings or references? This is remarkable.”

  He smiles warmly, her personality and openness so contagious, made even more so by the seeming fact that she is not doing it to impress or charm. It is just how she is.

  “So, how do you know this? What are the other two books? Where are they?” she suddenly pummels him with questions, and he reels back, chuckling, which causes her to shrug up her shoulders, that bashfulness rising. “Sorry.”

  “No, it’s fine,” he says, giving her a snug with his arm, “But,” he gets more serious, gaining an increase in focus from her, “the answer is complicated,” and she furrows her brow, “Well, the answer is not, I suppose, but proving it is.”

  “Okay?”

  “You are obviously aware my family is a known collector of books as well as other art and artifacts,” he begins, and she nods. “We’ve had … knowledge of the Three Books for some time now. Their whereabouts and the true depths of what they hold is still a mystery.”

  “Well,” she starts, and he can veritably see the wheels turning, and it pleases him that she so quickly rushes to help him rather than be suspicious or contrary, “You know of at least the one in the collection here.”

  “Ah, yes, well, my family is in possession of the first.”

  Her eyes widen at this, face moving as her chin raises, looking fully upon him.

  “It’s not in our published list, of course, for obvious reasons.”

  “This really is remarkable,” she says, her voice like a breathy whisper, as she goes back to her thoughts.

  She had received Denman Malkuth’s ‘list’ via email, and if there had been any doubt he did not know the name of the book, such was erased when the title appeared, almost casually, within the short index of others. She recognized the names of those, too, noting, though, that no others were in the school’s collection. She figures this is by design, so that if the book is in their possession, she may rush to offer the one positive she is able. He is playing off the oft times natural inclination of humans to want to give some sort of answer or ‘good’ response, something she generally has in abundance, but she is also aware and wary. She sent him a short reply that none of his requested tomes were in the library’s possession.

  She looks back over at Skothiam, her blues eyes given to his own, and she again ponders telling him about the other suitor, but instead, she holds it to herself for now.

  “So, what do the three books do? Are they like a puzzle?” she asks.

  “Yes,” he nods, “Very much so, and a rather difficult one, at that. I’ve ...,” he begins, brow furrowing, lips pursing a bit with thought, his right hand even coming up to absently toy with the short hairs of his goatee, “I’ve not even spent as much time with the first as I have with the one in your collection,” he muses, looking off into the distance, falling into his own thoughts. “And we’re still trying to figure out the location of the third. It’s daunting, really, and-,” he stops speaking as she reaches over, gently taking his hand in both of hers, bringing it closer to herself with no resistance from him.

  She guides it into her lap, her fingers moving with a soft caress. Her eyes travel from this up to his gaze, and she smiles beautifully, a hinting tinge of pink at her cheeks.

  “We can do this,” she says, and it touches him deeply, the gesture and words and obvious sincerity, “It may just take some time and work.”

  He returns her smile, nodding, “Yes, of course, you’re right, and thank you. Thank you so much for your help, Lily,” he says, using the nickname he has just recently adopted and found out she seems to quite enjoy.

  Of course there is much more to it than that, but he is still reluctant to speak further. He knows there are others out there who also want the book, and they will be much less inclined to be courteous, even law-abiding, in gaining possession of it. There is a sense of urgency, but he does not wish to so worry her.

  She does not deserve that.

  *****

  Pello Halkias does not cut in line as he patiently waits to pay for his bagel and coffee. He well could, but he does not. He is not that kind of police officer. He traded his uniform for his less obvious clothes a few years back, working his way up through the ranks, perhaps slowly, but surely. His partner is not with him right now, as Pello is using this time of the morning to patronize the local shop, as he is often wont to do, before heading to his car and in to the station. The older man behind the
counter smiles broadly, going through his normal routine of trying to offer the wares for free or at least with a deep discount, but as usual, Pello has none of it, paying full price.

  One may make a reasonable argument that giving such grace to the police is a good way of doing business, just as one may make an equally valid point that this may lead to an assumption of privilege and even corruption. Detective Halkias hails from a land deeply steeped in philosophy, but that is not his forte, so he opts for the safe, cautious route. He stays in the good graces of the people of his neighborhood by doing his job, being courteous and friendly.

  Still, he is not naïve. He knows the myriad levels of corruption, ethics violations, or minor infractions that go on. He knows it is all part of the machine. Some bend the rules, some break them. He compartmentalizes the dynamic, filtering it through his brand of pragmatism, maintaining focus. He has a strong sense of justice, and sometimes, he does not see everyone on the force heading in that direction. He tries to do what he can to make up for it.

  He glances at his metal watch, noting he has more time than usual, so he decides to take a seat at one of the few outdoor tables at this small eatery. He generously spreads the creamy tzaziki sauce over the bagel, which has also been flavored with caraway, bringing the stirrup-shaped bread up for a deep, deliberate bite, chewing away as he raises his mug to follow with some strong coffee.

  His attention drifts to his smartphone, which he has set nearby on the tabletop, interfacing with the screen with deft use of his extended little finger, trying to keep any other potential spills or bits of his breakfast from bothering the device. He checks the news, some messages, mundane things, as certain other operations need be left for more secure equipment.

  He is a more than halfway through with his breakfast when he sits up, his attention gathered, and he turns to see a quartet of police vehicles has rushed up and surrounded his parked white Škoda Rapid. Two are unmarked, but the lights whirling on their dashboards remove any subtlety, the others obvious patrol cars. The various officers rush out, some going to his vehicle, others noticing him as he turns in his chair, rising, and they move in his direction. He has no idea what is going on, and he just stands there, flummoxed. He recognizes at least two of the plain-clothes officers coming toward him, though he does not know them very well. They are both from the Homicide Division.

  “Detective Halkias?” one of them says, and at least they have not drawn their weapons.

  “Yes?” he replies, keeping still, hands visible.

  “Would you please come with us to your vehicle and unlock the trunk?”

  He blinks, head moving back, obvious confusion.

  “What’s this about?” he demands.

  “Please come with us and open your trunk.”

  He wonders if they have a warrant, wonders what is even going on, but he knows that the best way to handle it will be head-on, so he complies, keeping his hands out, held somewhat away from his torso, always in view, as he walks slowly to his car.

  “I am going to get my keys out now,” he announces, and the Homicide Detective nods, understanding, and Pello retrieves them, depressing the button on the activator that releases the lock on the trunk, resulting in an audible click and the lid coming free.

  “Please step back, sir,” the detective says, and he does, his heart beating rapidly, though not enough to debilitate him, as he waits to see what will be in there.

  In that split second, he lets any number of possibilities crash through his mind, many options of contraband, but then, Homicide would not be here if that were the case. He sees the bundled form, the irregular shape beneath the shroud, a large and obvious enough item. One he knows full well he did not put in his trunk.

  He is being cuffed and led away. There is a corpse in his trunk, and he is being taken in for questioning. It is an obvious set-up, and he wonders what evidence there may be that could even damn him. Breaking into someone’s trunk and planting items is really quite simple, so he wonders who is doing this, why, and what else may be in store.

  He doesn’t yet know it, but he will soon find out that the body in the rear compartment of his vehicle is a known member of a local criminal organization, a lieutenant named Maral, executed with two shots to his head.

  Another person is off in the distance, watching behind sunglasses, despite the early hour, his cultivation evident in his fairly decent suit and the refined look of his graying hair.

  “It is done,” he speaks into the mobile phone, “Yes, yes,” he says, speaking slowly, “The vigilante is down one contact … for now,” he iterates, then pauses as he listens to the phone, “Well, no, this will not stick, but it will put Halkias out of the picture for a time, and then maybe we have a ‘talk’ with him. We’re not trying to get him locked away as some corrupt cop, we’re trying to get him to stop feeding information to our pest.”

  He pauses, listening more, rolling his eyes behind the shaded spectacles, tucking the small phone against his ear with the use of his shoulder, using his now free hands to pull forth a pack of cigarettes, managing to get one in his mouth before he talks again, holding the lighter ready.

  “Oh, calm down, please. I know he has leaked information that hurt you, but this is not a vendetta. Do not go down that road. You handle your punishment with your own, but for Detective Halkias, we just need to plug the leak, hmm?”

  He further perks up his shoulders, holding out his hands, then brings them back together, flicking the flame to life and igniting the cigarette. It bobs up, stiffening at a high angle, the end flaring to an obvious brightness as he inhales, putting the igniter away and holding the phone again in his hand.

  “We’re working on that. This is not the usual interrogation and investigation. Questioning Halkias will not help. We need to use this to get into his flat and do some searching. You let me handle this, okay?” and he pauses, exhaling, flicking the ash of his cigarette into a nearby trashcan, “Good, good. Yes. Leave this to me.”

  And so said, he ends the call, sparing another glance to the scene, where the processing is underway, and Detective Pello Halkias has already been taken away for booking. Duilio’s own special investigator will be here soon to check out Halkias’ electronic equipment. Then, maybe, they will get something to help them trace the shadowy trail back to the vigilante.

  *****

  He lies upon the thin mattress, the meager offering upon the rickety metal frame, staring up at the ceiling. He sees patterns there, images resolving within the texturing of the sheet rock, mingling with the tiny cracks of age and disrepair, the flaking of paint.

  He wants to sleep. He doesn’t want to sleep. His pale blue eyes remain open, rarely blinking, staring at the ceiling. His thoughts are taken by pathways and strange images, shadows and flashing glimpses of an invisible world. He see things he does not understand, does not want to see.

  He finally rises up from the bed, his very thin form moving to sit on the side of that mattress. He runs his skinny, bony fingers through his short, light blonde hair, adding more disarray to the chaos. He then holds them out, palms down, just looking at his own hands, digits splayed. Some nails are long, some are cracked, some torn away. They tremble slightly, and he looks upon them as though lost, taken by a brewing fright. He then suddenly clenches them into fists, the shaking intensifying, lean muscles, tendons, veins standing out on his naked arms as he does this. He is obviously possessed of a powerful, potential energy.

  He releases his tension just as suddenly, leaning toward the simple, wooden nightstand, barely worthy of even being called furniture, and he fishes a small pill out of a cellophane bag, popping it into his mouth and chasing it with several deep gulps from a large cup of room temperature coffee. He sits there then, just breathing, eyes again unfocused.

  His name is Ernst van Zyl, and he is from South Africa, though he has lately arrived in the city from Switzerland, where he lived for a few years, studying at the prestigious University of Zürich. He had excelled at mathematics,
physics, but he had been just as gifted in the arts, showing promise as a violinist. He seemed well poised to attain his Bachelor of Science degree when everything tumbled away, sliding down a hungry fissure that had merely laid in wait for him, patient, unseen.

  Unseen …

  He does not remember exactly when it all started, but he eventually realized things were not ‘right’. Perhaps it was the stress, perhaps it was his brain finally filling with enough of the measured, exacting science and trying to process it on deeper, unconscious levels. Stress and weight cause fractures. He knows this.

  His attendance at classes had faltered. He spent much of his time locked away in his quarters at the dormitory, scrawling in his journal, using a thick, dark graphite design pencil when he had quickly broken away the all too fragile and thin lead in his mechanical one. He could have used a computer, of course, or an electronic touchpad, like so many of the other students, but he felt compelled to do all of this in a large, black casebound journal he had procured from one of the school’s many bookstores.

  The pages were covered in work that belie the innards of a simmering mind. Some of it was lengthy equations, geometric designs, some of these harshly struck through, deemed worthless, others retained in a pristine state. There were words upon words, some more legible than others, some like a sprawling prose, some like poetic verse. Which were dreams, which were the fancies of his mind, which were real? As the pages became more and more filled, he could not be sure. Perhaps some part of him had hoped that dumping the contents of his mind into this notebook would help to ease the load. Judging from the progression, things had only worsened.

  Some of the sheets bore crudely indicated music, and these tunes he had played on his violin, filling his small chamber and the outside world nearby with the strange, weird music that made use of singular harmonies unheard of in other compositions. It proved to be this, as much as his lagging academic achievement, that led to his expulsion and eviction. He became less of a shut-in and concern and more of a bother as this music intensified, becoming a shrill, mad, frantic playing that shrieked about, seeming to make sounds impossible of such an instrument.