The Predecessor

by Kimberly McGath

  Kimi had never had a team of SEALs as backup. She knew they’d have her six. The very thought brought a jolt of epinephrine which was her favorite fix. Her doctor warned her of the effects it was having on her heart, but she was too stubborn to listen. She may have followed his advice if he had been reasonable. Maybe she could have given up her running shoes and roller coasters rides, but he pushed it when he added the foot pursuits and car chases to the list. That’d be like asking a coke head to give up his powder.

  The novelty and unfamiliarity of this undercover role amplified the adrenaline even more which would have made Doctor Funless cringe. Tingles surged through her body at the thought of the SEALs watching her. She never thought in her wildest dreams she’d ever live out this particular exhibitionist fantasy. Adding the hunky military men as onlookers was a special bonus similar to winning the sexual lotto. She tried to put this feeling aside to concentrate on her work. Fat chance of that happening.

  Kimi pondered if she’d be able to spot her mark in the crowd. No one had ever seen the Venus Villain, but she was hopeful her instincts would prevail in the matter. She doubted her abilities at first, but she always got her man in the end…or woman for that matter. They didn’t call her “the mystic” for nothing.

  The introductory bars of the French techno song reverberated back stage. Kimi stood up and took one last look. Damn. She forgot to camouflage her law enforcement tattoo that adorned her left shoulder. Too late now and besides she doubted the serial killer was familiar with ten codes…unless. She tried to put the disturbing notion aside. She’d had her fill of crooked cops.

  Mozart scanned the room looking for signs of the perp. Knowing Wolf and Abe had his back; he concentrated his eyes back towards the stage. There was a tall, skinny blond with double D’s straddling a pole to his left and a petit Asian on a small circular stage to his right drawing a crowd of intoxicated cowboys. The tempo suddenly sped up and the curtain flung apart. Mozart’s jaw literally dropped and his eyes shot wide open. There she was. He knew it in an instant. There was something mesmerizing about her and all rational thoughts escaped him. He may as well have put on a bib to catch the drool. He wanted to put her in lockdown and defile her in ways no other man could. Mozart stared at her French-manicured nails and mused how they could dig deep into his back. Those were battle wounds he craved. The mystic was going to ruin him.

  The undercover detective was wearing a high cut thong and see-through bikini top with platinum beads dangling several inches from both pieces. The crystals glowed like diamonds with each flash of the strobe lights. A Cleopatra-style headpiece with clear gems accented her black waves and a platinum snake bracelet adorned her bicep. She’d had such fun shopping for the items until she knocked over the revolving display case, creating an avalanche of vibrators for all the customers to see. It was more humiliating than the time the half-witted grocery clerk called out a price check on the box of tampons over the loudspeaker in front of her ex.

  Kimi recognized the first SEAL right away. Damn was he yummy. Focus. She put her back towards him and stood spread-eagle and couldn’t help but wonder where this would lead if they were alone. Reaching down she grabbed her ankles and rocked her hips from side to side in sync with each strike of the snare drum. With her head between her knees she was able to assess the room. She located the other two SEALs with ease, but still no sign of her suspect. She stood up and dramatically thrust her head back, flinging her long locks against her back. Maybe that would cover up her ink.

  Mozart’s sweaty palms were glued to his thighs. He was frozen in place and just watched with reckless abandon. The detective crept towards him just inches away from his grasp. She slid her fingers teasingly down her tan thighs that sparkled with gold dust. His hands were jealous and wanted to push hers away. What was she doing to him? He was used to being in control and he found the role-reversal arousing.

  The beat of the fast-paced techno song slowed dramatically. Kimi emphasized the sexy rhythm with pelvic thrusts. She loved the seductive nature of the song that sped up and slowed down like good sex. The hot SEAL in front of her was distracting, but maybe she could use this to her advantage. She crouched down towards him and moistened her top lip with her tongue as she searched the crowd for the suspect. Running her fingers through her hair, she realized she had made a rookie mistake, perhaps a fatal one. With her hand on her head, the cool sensation of the gold metal striking her scalp was undeniable. Damn that whiskey. There was nothing she could do about it now.

  Kimi’s eyes darted towards the 13P (suspicious person) standing near the bar. There was a bulge in his Kiton suit near his ribcage. No SEAL or cop could afford that brand. He wasn’t on the team and he was carrying. There was a shadow cast on his face. Damn. So much for a forensic rendering. Her face slackened and she stared at the SEAL stationed at three o’clock hoping he would get the message.

  Wolf noticed the detective’s gaze and signaled Abe to warn the SEALs outside. They would have to put a tail on the perp once he left the club. They couldn’t allow him to reach his lair, which would put the asset in jeopardy, especially if he chloroformed her like he did the other girls.

  Mozart was oblivious to the serial killer standing just feet away. His gaze was fixated on his new master–Detective Luscious. The singer’s sultry voice moaned and Kimi lip-synced along and closed her lids to act out the climax. As she stroked her bikini top, the light hit the gold band that adorned her finger. Mozart stared in disbelief. His heart sank at the thought. He was enamored and “the mystic” was already taken. It didn’t make any sense. He felt betrayed, if not by her, than by the cosmos. Either way, it didn’t matter. The mystic had invaded his heart and he had to have her…at any cost.

  Nineteen years from now…

  Okefenokee Swamp, Georgia

  Chapter 2

  Who am I? The scariest question he had ever posed. Not because he was soul searching or trying to “find himself.” This was not a philosophical or figurative question, but an actual one. He literally had no idea who he was–a nightmare from which he could never awake. Even sleep brought no relief. Everyone around him was a stranger…his room unfamiliar. Solitude he could handle, but being alone amounted to being nowhere for his mind was hidden at the end of a maze without an exit. The only glimmer of hope that he could find his true identity locked deep within was dashed after every desperate attempt to recollect failed.

  Who am I? He asked the question again only this time with more alarm and intensity. It seemed the more he tried, the farther away he slipped. Terror and panic were his only companions. For now, he could only refer to himself as John Doe. All he could envision was laying on a steel slab with a tag attached to his big toe because he knew that was where all this was headed. His head spinned in horrifying circles for hours on end, but at least he began to tire. Somehow, amidst that terrifying notion of ending up in a morgue, he managed to drift off to sleep.

  Drip-drop, drip-drop. The subtle sounds awakened him. His lids were so heavy; it took several seconds to open them fully. Lying supine, he could make out some shadowy figures hovered over him. Every part of his body was stiff–every joint and muscle rendered immobile. The faint trickle in the background amplified its rhythm. An aged fellow leaned in, and John Doe noticed something shiny in the man’s hand. A knife maybe? No, a scalpel. Why does he have one of those? Scream you idiot. His mouth disobeyed the command and nothing came out. It was like having constipation of the mouth. Jump off the table…turn or do something. His muscular legs and massive arms also disregarded his orders; nothing worked. Some bodybuilder. Pansy was more like it.

  A woman clad in all white drew dashes on his right side with a black Sharpie. What the hell was she doing and who was her makeup artist…Bozo the Clown? The nurse resembled a cast member in a cheap horror film. The paralysis was unsettling. Why couldn’t he move or speak? The fact that he could hear, smell, see, and feel made matters worse. He wished someone would knock him unconscious.

  The madm
an with the steel instrument sliced slowly into his side like a butter knife cutting through steel. The instrument must not have been adequate because the nurse handed the doctor a hacksaw. Gripping the handle and the other end with his free hand, he rocked along back and forth, putting all his body weight into it. After several minutes, he discarded the hand tool for a motorized reciprocating saw. With one push of a button, the most deafening and ghastly noise filled the room. The doctor pushed the instrument into his ribcage and a dust-cloud hovered above the operating table, adding a new stench to the room. It was the most excruciating pain he had ever felt. Even childbirth couldn’t compare to the agony of bones being hacked. He didn’t need a uterus to figure that one out. Another shriek was fruitless, so even the little relief that a scream would provide never came. The putrescent smell of blood permeated the damp air.

  The doctor reached into his body with both hands. The sensation was revolting. Even more disturbing, the doc began to tug. Each yank was accompanied by some primordial instinct to strangle the guy, but he still couldn’t move a muscle. The nurse’s eyes widened and her mouth opened as the deranged doctor lifted something out of his abdomen. It was disgustingly big and half-moon-shaped, whatever it was. It resembled a prop out of a Sci-Fi movie. Vile plops of blood plunged onto his motionless body. Suddenly, a new horror emerged. He recognized that alien entity from childhood, the day his father died, but this one wasn’t smooth and red, it was black and bumpy. At least his memory was returning. His dad was dead. An intense ache developed in his gut. It was like that teacher at school had just broken the news to him for the first time all over again.

  The nurse held the organ up high as if she were parading Simba in front of the pride. She marched over to a table where she deposited it into a cooler filled with dry ice. The brume spilled out over the sides. The void she left revealed surgical stainless doors with tinted windows. An imposing chap holding a briefcase stood next to the exit, as if he were in charge or waiting for something. He was dressed in a dark suit and wore sunglasses inside the dimly lit room. His mouth opened revealing his vile dental work, or lack thereof when he gazed over at the hole in the patient’s abdomen. For some reason, his presence was more terrifying than the one belonging to the butcher who had cut him open.

  The doctor moved his face close and let out a depraved laugh. John Doe was certain he wasn’t a violent person, but he felt the sudden urge to rip the man’s face off in a blind rage. A taunting voice emerged inside his head–“See…I told you so. You’re losing it.”

  Chapter 3

  The planks creaked as the old Georgia house settled. The windswept tin moaned above, as if whispering a secret. Rain was sure to follow. Jagan opened his eyes to the dark cottage. Drenched in sweat, he rubbed his lids to ward off the disturbing dream and orient himself. His heart was still racing, but he was so relieved he could move…and even better, he knew who he was. Every night for the past month he had the same night terror. Glancing over at his tablet, he sighed in relief that he hadn’t overslept. His routine was everything.

  The coonhound’s tongue scratched against his face, leaving a damp residue. Bocephus took up most of the real estate on the queen-sized bed leaving him scrunched up against the window. Somehow he felt quite certain this would happen even when a human slept by his side.

  “Hungry Bo?” Jagan returned the affection with a few caresses behind his floppy ears. The light from the mini-fridge permeated the room. He filled his bag with the necessary proteins and veggies and tossed a hamburger patty on top for the hungry pooch. Two more weeks of shredding, and he’d be ready for his final competition. He wondered if he’d ever be able to fill his shoes.

  Jagan stood in front of the full length mirror and inspected his eight-pack. He practiced some of his poses and made some notes about which ones he needed to improve. With one hand on the tongue and groove floor and another behind his back, he lifted his body up and down, counting out loud and grunting with each repetition. He posted it on Snapchat, hoping for some feedback. As usual, his inbox got slammed from chicks hitting him up for his digits or offering to show him their boobs, not that he was complaining.

  The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee drifted from the main house and interrupted his morning workout. Kaya was already out in the kitchen pouring herself a cup. As he emptied his groceries, his mother’s gaze fixated on the counter. “Jagan Love, are you meal prepping?” She lifted her hands and rolled her eyes in disapproval.

  Not this again. “At least you didn’t include my middle name. Come on, Nibi. We made a deal.” Jagan had not called her that in years. He thought using the endearing name in their native tongue might simmer her attitude. He was still feeling drained from the vivid dream and not in the mood for a verbal boxing match.

  “Yes, we made one, but you’re breaking it.” She said, pointing to the tall carton of egg whites. “What are those for?” she asked. Jagan couldn’t understand why his mother resented his healthy lifestyle. She warmed both hands against her black robe, as if preparing for round one.

  “For drinking,” he said in a subversive tone. Maybe moving into the mother-in-law suite out back had been a mistake. He missed his bachelor pad in town, especially his own kitchen, but he knew the family needed him. He only agreed to it on the condition she would stop interfering in his life. Jagan loved his mother deeply, but she was a looky-loo if there ever was one, and she had a special talent for finding which buttons to push. He wondered if Clark Kent ever found Martha this irritating.

  Kaya crinkled her nose. “Raw egg whites. First of all yuck and B you know the avidin will make your biotin levels plummet.” His mother was obsessed with biochemistry and she had a habit of counting and switching to letters midstream. She continued her rant, “It’s bad enough you work out at the gym for hours on end, but your eating habits are just damn peculiar. Protein isn’t the only food group you know…and now raw eggs? How in tarnation is that healthy?”

  She had always been a worry wart at heart, but lately she had been on his case more than usual. Something was going on. “You sound backwoods when you say tar-na-tion and come on, Kaya. It’s natural. It’s not like I’m eating chicken shit.” What Jagan really wanted to say was at least I don’t binge on fast food and chain smoke, but he knew better than to let those words slip out. She’d probably snap and hit him over the head with a frying pan, winning the knockout.

  As usual, he took the softer approach. “All the freaks at the gym do it.” Jagan stood silent waiting for number three or letter C…he was never sure. He was bored with the same old argument each morning. He was twenty-two and his mother still treated him like he was in pull-ups.

  “All the superfreaks at the gym do it. Spare me Rick James.” That was the other thing. She always quoted old funk singers, as if Jagan grew up in the seventies or something. He got tired of googling their names. Kaya continued to repeat his statement in a taunting mumble as she grabbed the container and threw it into the receptacle. “All the freaks freak out. Le Chic says freak.” There she went adding another musical group he wasn’t familiar with. “And D it’s just plain gross to drink that stuff,” she said as she slammed the lid.

  “Nice ma. Those were expensive.” Even though he was aggravated, he couldn’t help but laugh at the fact she skipped the third letter and went right to the fourth. Trying to hide his grin, Jagan turned his head and attention to breakfast. He cracked the eggs, one in each hand, onto the sides of the glass bowl. The vibrant orange yolks stood out amongst the whites. The hens were producing a fine yield thanks to their new diet. He recently added apple cores and vegetable peels to their pellets. Pointing his whisk like a magic wand over to Alexa he ordered, “Play Firepower.” The robotic sounds of the techno piece echoed against the hard pine. Maybe that will drown out mom’s voice.

  Like a factory worker on an assembly line, Jagan lined up the salmon filets and Brussels sprouts onto the baking sheets and showered them with olive oil–first cold pressed. He shook the bottle and swayed in rh
ythm to the beat.

  Put your hand on the burner. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt. He didn’t know which voice was more intrusive–Kaya’s or the one inside. Either way, the obsessive ruminations were becoming more frequent. He’d seen the talk shows that featured kids with Tourettes and OCD, but he didn’t think he had something that serious. At least he didn’t have to check the lights a hundred times before leaving the house or wash his hands every five seconds. Besides, he knew better than to confide in his mother. Knowing her, she’d make him get an MRI or something.

  Tending to the pan, he scrambled the eggs well, leaving them to scorch. The smell of sulfur was a stench he enjoyed, especially because it made his mother queasy–a subliminal message to make her vanish so he could cook in peace. Glancing at his wrist-phone, he hurried his pace of eating, trying to ignore her domineering presence. Too bad he didn’t have a cape so he could just fly away.

  At the sink, Kaya scrubbed the frying pan hard with a brillo pad as if punishing the enamel for the earlier tiff. The fibers scraped against the aluminum surface like fingers on a chalkboard. No wonder he had ringing in his ears. She sighed and breathed heavy as if she was burning at the stake. Joan of Arc herself would have been less dramatic. Damn, she had a special knack for playing the martyr. Jagan sprang over to the basin and nudged her over with his elbow.