Ink

by Jonathan Maberry

  Patty made a small sound and now the eyes shifted to her. “I … I had something like that, too. Before everything, you know, happened. I had a client in to have some work done. But after he left I couldn’t remember a thing about him, the ink, or … well, anything, really.”

  Dianna glanced at Monk. “Did the same thing happen to you?”

  Monk shook his head, then began pacing. Thunder rattled the windows and the lights flickered. “No,” he said slowly. “Not really. I didn’t lose a block of time as far as I know. But I could feel the memories leaving me. It’s hard to explain. I was very much in the moment with it.”

  “Maybe it was because the memory you lost is special,” suggested Dianna. “Mystical, if I can use that word.”

  “Mystical is right on the money,” said Monk, “and maybe you’re right. The memories I lost fought to stay with me. Tuyet fought.”

  Gayle shivered. “Couldn’t you … um … just, y’know … ask the other ghosts? And, that is the freakiest sentence I’ve ever uttered.”

  Monk smiled at her. “Oh, I wish I could, sis. That would make it all easier.”

  “We’re nowhere,” complained Mike. “We don’t even know if this memory thief is a man or a woman.”

  “It’s a man,” said Dianna and Patty at the same time.

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Because,” said Dianna, “when I had that vision, it was a man.”

  “Describe it again,” suggested Crow. Dianna did and in greater detail than before. A very pale man, hairless, obscene.

  “Pale as in white or albino?” asked Mike.

  “A white man. I couldn’t see his face but I don’t think he’s older than forty. Not in good physical shape. And he has those awful fly tattoos.”

  “Christ,” said Crow, snapping his fingers loud as a gunshot, “we’re being really dense here. Dianna, your client was a guy, you said, right? And Patty, so was yours. Did either of you touch him? Or did he touch you? Was there any physical contact of any kind?”

  “I don’t usually touch my clients,” said Dianna. “I don’t want to interfere with their energy.”

  “I wear gloves,” said Patty. “But … maybe he touched me. I kind of half remember something…”

  Dianna licked her lips. “Yeah … maybe I do, too. Only it’s kind of gone. No, that’s not right. It’s like I’m remembering something from a long time ago. A kind of faded memory, if that makes sense.”

  “It might,” said Monk. “If a memory is being taken, then the clarity of it would diminish, right? It’d fade back, like it was old. But really it’s just leavin’.”

  Gayle shivered. “God almighty…”

  Mike asked, “Do either of you have credit card receipts? Or a scheduling book?”

  Patty shook her head. “That was a walk-in, I’m sure of it.” She checked her credit card app, but there was no sale that day. “He must have paid in cash.”

  Dianna chewed her lip. “You know, Ophelia prints out my client list every day. She keeps them, too, so she can work out what to pay me.”

  “We need that list,” said Monk. “When does the store open?”

  “Not until ten tomorrow.”

  Monk looked at the wall clock. It was three in the morning. “I don’t want to wait seven hours.”

  “I have a key,” said Dianna, grabbing her purse and digging out a key ring. “I use it for whenever Ophelia asks me to open, like if she has a doctor’s appointment.”

  “Outstanding,” said Crow. “Mike, why don’t you go with her?”

  “On it, boss,” said the big cop. He and Dianna put on their coats and hurried out.

  123

  Monk picked up the wine bottle and offered it to him, but Crow declined.

  “Why, ’cause you’re on duty?”

  “No, because I’m an alcoholic and I really, really want that whole bottle.”

  “Ah,” said Monk, “That sucks.” He twisted the cap off the bottle and took a heavy gulp. Then began pacing the room like a caged tiger. “This whole thing is weird as balls, but if this is about stealing memories, then it makes a fucked-up kind of sense. A logic, I mean. But flies that turn to ink when you smash them? What the hell does that mean?”

  After a moment Gayle raised her hand like a kid in school, “Okay, so this is a very weird theory but hear me out. In her vision Dianna saw this guy covered in fly tattoos and also flying flies. Real ones, I mean. Well, what if they were all tattoos? What if he’s somehow—I don’t know, it’s sounding stupid to say it out loud—but what if he’s really in command of them? An actual lord of those kinds of flies? Maybe he can send them out to—and god, here’s another crazy thing—do his bidding?”

  “That would have sounded a hell of a lot crazier yesterday than it does now,” grumbled Monk. He took another heavy swig and thumped the bottle down on the work counter. “If Fly Guy can send his tattoos out … why? What’s he hope to gain?”

  Gayle wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. “Spies? Is that possible?”

  They stared at one another, but eventually each shook their heads. Not in dismissal of Gayle’s question, but because none of them had actual answers.

  “Why here in Pine Deep?” mused Crow. He sat on one of the chairs and rocked slowly side to side. “We know that this one artist, Malibu Mark, worked with one of the victims. Tink. And now he’s suddenly in the area, at Spider’s place. Why?”

  “Hell if I know,” admitted Monk.

  “I do,” said Patty suddenly. “The Fringe Festival! There are maybe sixty or eighty top tattoo artists going to be here. People from all over the country.”

  “So we’re thinking Malibu Mark and the other two victims were hanging out with Spider because they’re colleagues?” asked Monk.

  “They probably were,” said Patty. “Most of the pros know each other. Spider’s place is next to a bar, so it makes some sense that they met to hang out.”

  “That part’s easy,” said Crow. “I think our boy is getting squirrelly. Maybe knows he’s being hunted and is cleaning his back trail.”

  “It can’t be that simple,” said Gayle.

  “Why not?” Monk said. “It’s what I’d do.”

  Gayle was visibly shaking and her eyes were bright and wet. “This is freaking me out. We’re talking about this like it’s so reasonable, but there’s some kind of monster stealing memories and feeding on them. How is that even real? I don’t believe in any of this. I’m generally pretty grounded, you know? I don’t believe in God, or angels, or spirits, or any of this. The world isn’t like that.”

  Patty, Crow, and Monk looked at her.

  Tears welled in Gayle’s eyes and her mouth lost its firmness. “The world shouldn’t be like this.”

  The difference in her last two statements came close to breaking Monk’s heart. He opened his mouth to say something, to try and offer some words of comfort, but he never got the chance.

  There was a roar from outside louder than the thunder, louder than the hammering rain, and suddenly the store was blasted with intense white light. Then the front window of the store exploded inward and a big wire-mesh trash can from the curb hurtled inside, dragging ten thousand shards of glass with it. Wind and rain howled in through the shattered window and the night was filled with the roar of two dozen motorcycle engines.

  And everything went to hell.

  124

  A throng of bikers came charging through the window. In the flash of lightning they looked like Viking raiders tearing through the monasteries of Northumbria, or a horde of Visigoths roaring with murderous glee as they sacked Rome. There were so many of them; they were armed with knives and chains and pistols, and even a couple of pump shotguns. They howled as they charged. A wordless bellow of fury; and their eyes blazed with madness.

  They began firing wildly, not really aiming, but shooting as if the very air of the shop was something they wanted to kill. Bullets smashed mirrors and punched through the backs of the barber chairs and to
re into the art pinned to the walls. Torn paper, plaster, and porcelain flew everywhere, and a hundred colors of ink splashed the walls and ceiling.

  Patty grabbed Gayle and spun her around and down behind one of the chairs, Crow dove for the far wall to avoid being slashed to ribbons. Monk backpedaled, but the storm of splinters caught him, chopped at him. He went down to one knee, clawing at his Sig Sauer, but before he had it out Crow was up on one knee, his big Beretta .40 in a two-hand grip, challenging the storm with lightning and thunder of his own. The heavy slugs took one biker in the chest and another in the mouth, but his third shot struck the barrel of a shotgun, throwing that weapon high as it fired and then ripping it from the man’s hands.

  Monk tore his gun free and dodged behind one of the barber chairs, firing an entire six-round magazine dry in seconds. He swapped in his second and only backup just as Crow’s slide locked back. The chief’s gun had a ten-shot magazine, but he had two full extras on his belt.

  But before Crow could finish slapping in the new magazine the bikers were on him. Monk lost sight of him as three of the attackers swarmed in. Monk rose shooting, going for chests and faces at that range. Hitting everything he aimed at. But then he was out and used the butt of the Sig to smash into the visor of the closest man, then shoved him to send him crashing into the others. They were so densely packed that the force created a chain reaction, dragging four of them down and tripping the ones behind.

  That gave Monk the only chance he had, and he took it. As one man stumbled over the legs of his comrade, Monk grabbed his shotgun and wrenched it free, using all of the strength of his hips to create torque. The jerk was so strong that Monk actually pirouetted in place, bringing the weapon up as he completed the turn. He tucked the stock hard against his shoulder and fired straight, aiming for the bobbing helmets and exposed faces. In the narrow confines of the tattoo parlor he could not miss, and the pellets sprayed outward from the barrel, doing awful butchery.

  Suddenly there were new shots, but they came from behind him, and Monk pitched sideways, twisting as he fell, expecting to see the doom of all of them behind. But it wasn’t more of the Cyke-Lones barging in through the back—instead he gaped in astonishment to see Gayle standing in a wide-legged shooter’s stance, a small-frame Glock in her small hands. Her eyes were huge and full of shock at what she was doing as she pulled the trigger over and over again. Four of the bikers staggered backward or crumpled to the floor. None of them dove for cover, which was deeply weird in a situation where everything was weird.

  Lord of the Flies.

  A flash image of Spider provided the explanation, as well as the proof of their theory that somehow the bastard behind all this was able to exert some kind of freaky-deaky mindfuck on people. The bikers were more like drones or robots than thinking creatures. They could fight, drive bikes, use weapons, but that was all part of their imperative need to destroy the enemies of their master. There was no self-preservation in their actions. No unity of attack, either. With their numbers they could have already won, but they failed because each of them was attacking as an individual rather than with coordination was a flaw. A vulnerability. They were getting in each other’s way to try and accomplish their orders, which encumbered the others.

  Gayle’s last shot rang out and one more biker fell, and then the others surged forward, still howling in that wordless challenge.

  “I don’t have any more bullets,” she shrieked, and Monk saw Patty hook an arm around her waist and drag her away down the hall to the bedroom.

  Monk dropped his pistol and pulled his two remaining weapons—the Buck knife and the blackjack—and flung himself at the killers.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw two of them fall sideways, one face turned into a red mask of ruin and the other clutching a crushed throat, and then Crow rose into sight. He was bleeding from a broken nose but he moved like a jungle cat—blindingly fast, lashing out with his open hands and with short, brutal kicks. Crow met Monk’s eyes for a split second, and there was a hell of a lot said. In that moment they understood each other. Monk recognized Crow as a fellow traveler through the storm lands. A scarred warrior who did not and would not accept the possibility of defeat. If these bastards were going to win then they would need to earn it, and it was going to cost them far more than they’d want to pay.

  125

  Mike pulled his cruiser to a stop in front of Nature’s Spirits with the passenger door curbside. There was a six-foot gap between car and awning, and Dianna opened the door and made a break for it. Mike hurried to meet her and stood watching the street while she fitted the key into the lock. The door clicked open and a thin wailing began.

  “There’s a security thing,” said Dianna as she hurried over and punched numbers into a keypad on the wall. The wailing stopped and the store was plunged into silence.

  Mike looked around, one hand on his holstered gun. He’d been in there a dozen times, including that time he came in to ask Dianna if she’d like to go to dinner with him. It was almost right where he was standing when she’d declined with a lovely smile and an explanation about her dating preferences. Mike had been surprised and disappointed, but had been cool with it. As the Fringe community along Boundary Street had grown, he’d long since learned to overcome the male view that lesbians were a “type.” Dianna was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen, let alone known, and his regret was a wistful one. He also envied Gayle, though it was merely envy and not the more petty emotion of jealousy, which carried with it a false sense of ownership. Mike had his full share of issues, but jealousy and intolerance were not among them.

  As if reading his mind—or sensing his emotions—Dianna touched his arm and gave him a sweet smile.

  “You’re a good man, Mike,” she said. “I hope you know that.”

  “Trying to be,” he replied, and they smiled at each other for a moment. Then he turned and pointed to the counter. “Is that where Ophelia keeps her client sheets?”

  “Yes, there’s an accordion file for payroll and other stuff,” said Dianna as she hustled around behind the counter. She pulled the buff-colored file onto the countertop, located the pocket for time sheets, and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “Here!” she said excitedly.

  She spread the papers out and pulled the one from the right day. They looked down at the name of the first client listed.

  “Owen Minor,” said Mike. He shook his head. “Never heard of him, have you?”

  When Dianna did not immediately reply he looked at her and saw that her eyes had become strangely unfocused, as if she was looking inward instead of at him. Her lips formed the four syllables of that name. Once, twice … Mike stood very still, waiting.

  Finally Dianna blinked her eyes clear and in that moment her expression fell into sickness and disgust.

  “That’s him,” she said.

  “You’re sure?”

  Her eyes hardened. “Yes. Now that I see his name? After everything I saw in that vision? Yes. Owen Minor is the Lord of the Flies.”

  “Outstanding,” said Mike. “I’d better call Crow and tell him.”

  He made the call, but there was no answer.

  “That’s weird,” he said. “Why would he have the ringer turned off?”

  “Let me call Gayle,” said Dianna, pulling out her cell. She found the number and hit the call button. It rang four times and just when she thought it was going to go to voicemail Gayle answered.

  But she answered with a scream.

  “Dianna! There’s a bunch of psycho zombie bikers! I think he sent them. Oh my god, I … I … I shot some of them!”

  And then the call abruptly ended.

  “Stay here,” yelled Mike as he ran for the door.

  Dianna did not stay there. She was in the cruiser before he was.

  126

  Monk Addison tore into the Cyke-Lones, smashing arms and faces with his blackjack and slashing and stabbing with the knife. Blood filled the air like an explosion of rubies. Howls of rage
became screams of pain that rose above even the mind control.

  Ten feet away he saw Crow, who was twice his age and half his size, dropping bikers with some kung-fu bullshit that was frightening to behold. There was more than just survival in the frenzy of the small cop’s moves. Maybe he was down on that animal level where a pack leader becomes a monster in order to defend the young of the pack. Or maybe he’d personalized the threat. What had he said during their first meeting? That he’d lost a couple of kids? Maybe he was inside Patty’s grief about Tuyet, borrowing her outrage at the theft of life. Whatever was shoveling coal into his furnace it was burning hot as the sun.

  But the man’s face was flushed a bright red and he was streaming sweat. He might win this fight, but it looked like it was going to kill him.

  He felt his own body tiring. There had to be fifty cuts all over him from when the windows shattered, and his own blood was pooling in his shoes. There were still bikers outside battling to get in. Monk and Crow were individually a match for any of them, but this was going to come down to a numbers game. The two of them might win a lot of battles but lose the war from blood loss, age, and fatigue.

  That thought—and horror at what would then happen to Patty and Gayle—dumped new fuel into his own engines. He pressed the attack, taking the fight to the bikers, letting the brutal soldier he’d once been come out of his cage. Saying fuck it and fuck you to the whole goddamn world. If this was where all of his miles on the pilgrim road were going to end, and even if that meant that he—unredeemed—was about to plummet through the bloody floor on which he fought and fall into the abyss, then so what? He would take as many of them with him. He would fight long enough for Patty and Gayle to get out of there. If he could save them by dying, then that was redemption enough.