Dance of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  He is greeted with a few nods, though most just continue to stare.

  “The vigilante uses an FN P90, we know that from the attack on the warehouse here, an attack which resulted in several incapacitated guards, and I use the term generously. They were criminals, mercenaries, armed killers, and they would have intended lethal harm to such an intruder, yet he did not kill a single one. They were disabled and secured, much like would happen at the hands of a law enforcement officer who was trained to only use lethal force under certain circumstances.

  “So, why, then, does the vigilante, if indeed he was even there, kill a non-threatening young girl?” he pitches, pausing a moment, “He leaves three alive, including the ‘witness’?

  “Same ammunition,” he continues after another weighty pause, “We know it was a P90, but where is the ballistics analysis that links it to the vigilante’s weapon? Our offices have some of those for comparison, so where is the analysis? Same caliber bullet does not mean same gun.”

  He pauses, eyebrows raised, daring anyone on this impromptu jury to contradict him.

  “I have my doubts if he was even there,” he continues. “What the vigilante is doing is giving a lot of trouble to the crime ring in our city, and they are going to push back.”

  “But what about the murdered doctor?” a detective pitches.

  “We’ve wasted enough time talking about this vigilante,” he dismisses, turning his focus back to the man behind the desk. “The Task Force put together to investigate and find the suspect is a waste. I want it dissolved. Pursue the vigilante for vigilantism, just like any other case, and assign it a priority, just like any other case, but,” he nears a climax, “The very limited resources of this department need to be better focused on busting up this human trafficking/sex slavery operation. That is a blight on the city, and it needs to stop.

  “There are families of those missing and dead girls back in other countries,” he continues, extending the fingers of his left hand in succession as he ticks off the information, “Ukraine, Russia, Romania, and I am not going to act like this is less important because only two of the ten dead girls are from here. This will be handled.” He pauses again, looking around, giving a steady, pointed gaze to all those in the room before going again back to the man behind the desk.

  “Director, I thank you and the others for your time. I will also expect regular, frequent reports on this matter delivered to my office.” And thus concluded, he turns to make a smooth exeunt from the chamber.

  It takes a moment for the silent tension to relax, but once it does, it is like a growing splinter in the dike. People begin moving, some throw out quiet chuckles and wide eyes as signs of their anxiety. Some appear angered.

  “Captain, can he really tell us how to conduct our business?” one asks, and the captain looks over at the speaker, then turns and angles his questioning eyes at the director.

  The man behind the desk takes a moment to collect his thoughts, pulling in a breath, but trying not to seem too shaken up in front of his subordinates. The large-sized lenses of his round spectacles take on a reflection of the overhead lights as he lowers his chin, obscuring his eyes from view before he looks back at them fully, preparing to speak.

  “Councillor Keller is a powerful man in this city. He may not be the Mayor … yet,” he adds after a split second of afterthought, “but he has many powerful friends. He has the Minister’s ear,” he informs, and they all know he refers to the person to whom the director answers.

  A moment of tense silence stretches out, a cacophony of shuffling feet, moving hands, murmured words exchanged.

  “Alright, everyone,” the director refocuses, “The Councillor is right, even if I do not care for his methods. We have an obvious problem here. I’m bothered that it has come to this and even gained his notice. He’s going to hammer on this; I can assure you of that.”

  “It’ll help his political career,” says one cynical voice.

  “You can bet on that,” the director quips, staring at the one who has spoken, “And that’s why he’ll be in this to the end now. So,” he closes, “that end better come soon,” and he looks about, then sets his eyes directly on the captain.

  “Yes, sir,” the man says after a moment of enduring that stare.

  “Alright, you’re all dismissed.” And the group funnels out of his office with the meandering energy of a stunned herd.

  *****

  “What do you mean the Task Force is disbanded?”

  The crime boss does not even look up from where he is standing, wearing a dark blue track suit, throwing out hunks of meat to the chained Rottweilers, the light of the descending sun catching off the red shine. The dogs are eager, fighting over the treats, wolfing them down as quickly as they can move their powerful jaws.

  “Look at that, huh?” he grins broadly, “I bet my dogs would make quick work of that vigilante,” he all but spits the word.

  The others just watch as he takes up a few more pieces of the meat, tossing them to the powerful animals before brushing his hands off, using a nearby towel to finish his cleaning, turning his eyes to the men.

  “I asked you a question.”

  “The Task Force was disbanded,” Quain says, meeting the other man’s gaze.

  “Why?” Gnegon pushes, perking his eyebrows, his slit eyes widening, his entire aspect as one who is reluctantly dealing with a child.

  “A particular City Councillor has taken an interest in dead girls,” speaks a voice, but it does not belong to Quain.

  They all look over to Duilio, who is still watching the animals, and still wearing his ubiquitous sunglasses despite the imminent gloaming. He even looks to have raised his chin, peering at the feeding dogs from beneath his shades, his lips pursed somewhat to hold the burning cigarette.

  “What do I care if some city councilman is a necrophiliac?” Gnegon asks, perplexed. “Are we trying to bribe him or something?”

  The inspector pushes off from where he had been leaning on a large, wooden crate, taking a few lazy steps toward the other three, his face now downturned as he looks at the men over his sunglasses.

  “No,” he flashes a grin, “This councillor is taking an interest in young girls who have turned up dead, some murdered, in this very city, and I would suspect that the ones who were not born in this city were brought here against their will, made to become dependent on drugs, forced into a sort of sexual servitude …” and the eyebrows have been perking up this entire time.

  “Get to your point,” Gnegon growls, and the two dogs look over from where they have lapsed into a somewhat contended recline, ears perking up, but they do not take to their feet.

  “This councillor is a powerful one, not just some old seat warmer who casts occasional votes,” Duilio continues, “He’s fierce!” he emphasizes, shooting his hands out, splaying his fingers, then he plucks the cigarette from his mouth after a quick drag, and he shows another grin from which emerges a short, bubbly chuckle, smoke puffing out with it, as though amused with his own telling. “He thinks that a bunch of unfortunate girls is a problem, and that it means bigger problems. Much bigger than some vigilante, no?”

  Gnegon just stares, any good mood he may have experienced from spending some time out here in the nice air, feeding his dogs, having now completely dissolved. His face is pinched up with concern, frustration, a brewing anger.

  “But that doesn’t mean we will stop what we are doing, hmm?” Duilio says, finally removing his sunglasses, after slipping the cigarette back between his lips, folding the arms of the black shades and tucking them in his inside jacket pocket, angling his now exposed eyes to the other two.

  “Right,” Alec blurts, though Quain just stands there, giving a slow, nearly undetectable nod.

  “Who is this councillor,” Gnegon finally speaks, some spittle erupting as he does. “Why don’t we just kill him?”

  “No!” Duillio exclaims, eyes going wide, hands held out, fingers up to display his palms. “Do you want to bring an
end to yourself?”

  “He is that well connected?” the crime boss asks, more thoughtful.

  “He is, he is,” the Interpol Agent nods, emphatically, “He will probably skip right over the local avenues left before him and end up on the national legislature soon, and who knows, maybe even higher than that someday.”

  “Shit!” Gnegon curses.

  “Yes,” Duilio nods deeply, “Shit,” he agrees, though uttering the word in a very calm fashion.

  “So, I step up imports to counteract the vigilante, and he disappears, so this results in a glut, too much supply-.”

  “Which will lower value,” Duilio points out, and the crime boss nods, not bothered at all by this interruption.

  “And because there is always going to be some amount of dead girls,” he iterates, looking between the three men, his sarcastic tone evincing exactly how much he dehumanizes the young ladies. “There are too many!” He throws up his hand in exasperation.

  “Three hundred percent increase from last year,” Quain states, he and his partner having been two of the detectives summoned to the meeting that day.

  “So much?” Gnegon asks, perking his eyebrows.

  “Yeah,” Quain nods, “But three of them are victims of the serial killer.”

  “What?” Gnegon almost shouts. “That súka is also hitting my girls!?” he exclaims, then scoffs loudly, throwing his hands about, and the dogs finally rise up to their paws, one of them giving a clipped, inquiring bark.

  Gnegon turns to this sound, emitting a short kissing sound with this lips, and the two animals go back to relaxing. He then turns his frustration back to the three men.

  “So, I have the vigilante, this councillor, and the serial killer all harassing me?” and he shakes his head, pressing his lips together.

  “You are the big fish in this lake, Gnegon,” Duilio says, having finished his cigarette and disposed of it, and he clamps a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You know you will have enemies … troubles.”

  The gangster nods, pursing out his lower lip. “I do, yes, and I need troubleshooters, hmm?” He looks pointedly at the three.

  “Of course, you do,” the inspector releases the hold, moving, turning his back to them momentarily as he talks, “We have to change tactics on the vigilante,” and he turns back, holding out his arms a bit, “I am sorry to say that, Gnegon, but this councillor is a bigger issue, and if he decided to focus on you, that would be a much, much bigger problem.”

  “He is focusing on me!” Gnegon exclaims, bringing up semi-clawed hands on bent arms, shaking them.

  “No, no,” Duilio soothes, moving back over, this time actually draping a consoling arm over the man’s shoulders. “He is not focusing on you. He is focusing on dead girls.”

  The crime boss gives this some thought, moving his gaze from the agent over to the officers, both of whom nod.

  “Alright,” Gnegon says, moving away from Duilio. “So, then, what do we do?”

  “Well,” the inspector gives a shrug, pursing out his lips, “Trim down your operations, take more control over what happens to your girls, and if they do die, for whatever reason, dispose of them better.”

  “Not as much ‘official’ help with hunting the vigilante, either,” Quain adds.

  Gnegon just shakes his head, obviously displeased but more accepting of the developing situation.

  “If I do too little, the vigilante cripples me,” he muses. “If I do too much, the government comes after me,” he says, throwing his hands toward the two detectives.

  “It is a careful balancing act, yes.” Duilio nods slowly, purposefully.

  Gnegon glances over then adds his own nod of agreement. “When I was new in this town,” he begins, “I had to be very careful, and not just because of the police, but because of rivals. I had to spread out, not too thin as to be unable to protect myself, but not so centralized as to be an easy target, eh?” he continues, getting agreeing nods from the trio, “Now, I have no real rivals. The city is mine.” He turns from the expansive backyard, looking toward that very place. “Being spread out helps to keep the police off my back,” he spares another glance to the detectives who give no outward reaction, “But it also gives many targets to the lone vigilante. He is one man, and how do I stop one man?” He pauses again, looking at the three, “I give him one target.”

  “Hmm?” Duilio somewhat asks, eyebrows rising.

  The crime boss just smirks.

  *****

  Outside the city, not too far, but far enough to be in this field, the rolling hills swooping away, the trees like ancient heralds, even the thin ones, even the stubby ones. Some hold the colorful leaves of autumn, others have eagerly shed this weight, preparing for the coming winter, their branches like grotesquely elongated fingers with too many joints.

  Mist caresses this place, the wispy tendrils thickening in some parts enough to perhaps seem a fog. The enshrouding like a haze even as much a filter, softening some things, heightening others. Noises travel through where vision meets confusion, scratchy calls might be from an insect, shrill turning to throaty, the croaking of frogs, something else, something odd and unknown.

  He blinks, almost a casual gesture, even reptilian such is it so slow, deliberate. His eyes linger in the direction of the most recent piping call, trying to discern more of its origin. As such mysteries are left unanswered, he moves his focus forward, eyes like the steady, slow sweep of a lighthouse beam. He tenses the muscles of his right leg in preparation of taking a step, but he halts, just looking out over the gloom.

  How did he get here? When did he get here?

  He remembers being back in his dingy room, again just staring at the ceiling. His mind was somewhat preoccupied with the tattoo he had seen on the prostitute. He had returned that evening and done his own sketching from memory, adding the image to his journal.

  He starts then, lean muscles tensing, rising up to resolution within his all-too-thin frame, eyes jerking over in the same direction from which he had heard the long, throaty call. He saw something moving, or thought he did, but it seems gone in a blinking flash. Though he is obviously immersed in confusion, fear, he takes tentative steps in that direction, holding out his right arm, hand up, fingers curled, as though the distorted cane of a blind person.

  “Who’s there!?” he calls out, demanding, for he has seen the shifting shadows and hints of a body moving deeper in the covering mist.

  He receives no answer, sees nothing else there.

  He jerks his head about, dread growing. How did he get here? Where is he?

  He fell asleep, back in his room, and now he is here. Did he sleepwalk all the way to this place? He looks around, trying to find lights from the city, and yes, he sees something off toward his left, not really far at all, though feeling a world away. He jerks his head back right as he hears another animalian noise, and there is another bright flash in his peripheral vision. Something there, but not.

  His compulsion has brought him here, as sure as if he is a dumb dowsing rod. He even parts his thin, cracked lips, trying to defy this and speak, but he is not even able to manage the most pathetic squeak to add to the creeping noises of the area. His tongue somewhat pokes out with the effort, a discoloration and coating upon it that bespeaks of his ill health. He gives up, after some measure of strain, shaking his head, eyes squeezed shut, taking in lungsful of air.

  That air is so wet upon his skin, giving a chill to his already sickly pallor. He looks down and realizes he is barefoot, taking this subconscious jaunt in his nightclothes – a stained, white tank top and thin, gray sweatpants. His feet are covered in the detritus of his travels, no doubt leaving behind a trail of his explorations. He looks back, wondering if anyone is indeed following him, but other than the eerie sounds and occasional glimpses of movement, it seems he is alone out here in the mist.

  He doesn’t feel alone.

  It is curious to him, in the deeper recesses of his analytical, rational mind, that some people seem to lo
se their hold on sanity, reality, whatever one may wish to call it, by feeling alone, isolated, but he would much rather feel alone. It is the things he senses, the things he sees, that are driving him to this horrible point in his life. He wishes they were not real.

  He’d rather just be alone.

  *****

  “SSC.”

  “SSC?”

  He smiles lightly at her, nodding slowly, chewing his food. They sit at a somewhat secluded table in this nice, small café, enjoying a late morning breakfast, or even a brunch, if one were so inclined. They had spent last evening together, she staying again overnight in his hotel room. She’d even brought a bag with her, a change of clothes, some toiletries, though the scarf and hat proved unneeded as the unseasonably warm and dry weather continues to bless the area, the relative humidity below seventy percent.

  “Safe, sane, and consensual,” he expands, after having swallowed his food and followed that with a taste of his fresh fruit juice, “A core tenet of healthy, mature practice of BDSM.”

  She nods, taking this in, keeping herself in a mainly polite, quiet repose, enjoying the meal and company, paying attention to him.

  “There are obviously a lot of activities in which people may engage that may seem non-consensual, this may even play a part of the fantasy element, the exhilaration, but ultimately, everything is consensual. That is also why people use safe words and signals.”

  She looks back up at him from having gathered another forkful of food, perking her eyebrows. He hears the question plainly enough.

  “Another core tenet is openness and communication. This all comes from mutual trust and respect. We should be able to talk, meaningfully and maturely, about anything. It doesn’t mean we will be okay with everything or do everything, but being able to talk of it is important.”

  She nods to this, for it is something about which they have before spoken.