by Adam Carter
They found a window at the back which did not look at all secure. Thankfully there were trees and bushes surrounding the rear, masking their presence, and Thompson had the window open within moments. She climbed in first, moving slowly so as to allow her eyes to adjust to the gloom. Once she was certain the room was clear she motioned Foster to join her. It was dark within the room, the only light coming from outside and most of that having to filter through the trees. Plus it was night, which did not help them at all. The room seemed to be used to store cleaning equipment and soap in large plastic bottles. There were other toiletries and mops and the like, but nothing which would help them at all, unless they wanted to dress up and pretend to be cleaners.
Thompson tried the door carefully and found it unlocked. Motioning for Foster to fall in line behind her, she pushed the door slowly and stepped out into the corridor. The lights here were off as well, and unlike the storeroom there were no windows to the outside world. Thompson chanced turning on her torch, holding her hand over the beam and pointing it towards the floor. The light was diffuse, but it was enough to show her she was in a corridor filled with paintings. As Foster closed the door behind her Thompson noted it was all just as she expected. A door marked ‘Staff Only’ in an art gallery.
She stopped moving, closing her eyes and listening. She could hear nothing.
“We need to pick a direction,” Foster whispered. “Maybe we should split up?”
That would have been a good idea. If they came at these guys from three different directions there was a good chance they would A) find them and B) be able to do something to stop them. However, Foster was not a field agent. Or at least she was an agent who seldom went into the field; and Thompson did not trust her not to mess up the operation. Ordinarily she would have just given the Detective a go, but Baronaire’s life was on the line here and Thompson would not risk it.
“We stick together,” she whispered back. “Follow me, make no sound, and keep your torch off.”
Thompson removed the hand from her own torch and shone the light down the corridor. There was no one about, so it was safe for the moment to use the light to their best advantage. Neither direction gave her any indication of where they should be headed, so she simply selected one at random.
They walked for about ten minutes. The paintings had given way to an Egyptian exhibit, which meant the gallery was also a museum. There was a great sarcophagus standing in the centre of the room, apparently complete with mummified corpse, although the sign said the lid could not be removed in case the mummy evaporated in contact with air. For one horrible moment Thompson wondered whether Baronaire had been killed and placed within the sarcophagus. It would have been the perfect way to get rid of the body, since no one was ever likely to open it. But no, this man Gorlinger wanted to speak with Baronaire and that couldn’t happen if they killed him.
“I don’t even know why we’re bothering,” a voice boomed through the chamber as though Zeus himself was firing lightning bolts.
Thompson immediately dropped to the floor, turning off her torch in the process. She glanced up to see Foster still standing there and grabbed the woman by the arm, yanking her down to crouch beside her, slipping her hand over her mouth to stifle her yelp. Through the gaps in the exhibition Thompson could see two men wandering into the chamber. Light poured in from the corridor outside, although the two men did not bear torches or bother turning on the lights in this room. They were both suited, with slick dark hair and clearly thought they were in an Al Pacino film. They were at the same time complaining about being there that night and laughing over some TV programme that had been on the evening before.
Neither was paying much attention to what they were doing.
“This is our chance,” Thompson whispered to Foster. “We take these guys down quickly and quietly, question them and then go find Baronaire.”
“Right. How do we do that?”
Thompson glanced at her. “Did you actually do basic training?”
“Yeah,” she answered incredulously. “I did basic training. But that’s all defence. Doesn’t much help if I’m the one doing the attacking.”
“Well just do a shoulder throw or something.”
“Right.”
“Actually, no, don’t do a shoulder throw. We don’t want these guys shouting out. Just leave it to me and I’ll handle it.”
“You’re going to take them both down?”
“Yeah.”
“By yourself?”
“Don’t even think of looking at me like that. I wouldn’t have to do them both if you’d actually done your training.”
Thompson stopped talking as she felt a strange prickling on the back of her neck. Both women turned their heads very slowly to find the two suited men leaning over the partition, staring down at them with bemused expressions. “Don’t mind us,” one of them said. “If this is a joke I’m just waiting for the punchline.”
Thompson answered the only way she knew how. She threw the first punch.
The guy went down, a look of genuine surprise on his face, but she was on the other man before either could cry out. She doubled the second man over with a fist to his stomach, hissing for Foster to do something with him even as she grabbed hold of the first and rammed his head into the wall. She looked over to find Foster trying to kick her opponent, who was having very obvious stomach troubles, but who had still managed to catch hold of Foster’s flailing leg.
“Jesus Christ,” Thompson muttered, leaping for the guy and grabbing his head in a swift lock. He struggled, surprised by the attack in the darkness, but Thompson twisted, throwing him into the wall. “Gag him and tie him up,” she told Foster as she headed back to her own foe.
He was just recovering from having his head slammed into the wall when Thompson grabbed him. Her knife was kissing his throat before he could emit a single sound, and his wide eyes and trembling lip told her she would get exactly what she wanted from him. A glance in Foster’s direction told her the Detective had actually managed to do something right. Her opponent was bound and gagged and would not be making any noise at all for them.
“Now,” Thompson said, turning cold eyes upon her man, “where’s Charles Baronaire?”
It took about thirty seconds to get what she wanted from him, after which Thompson bound the man in the same fashion as his friend. The two women headed in the direction they had been given, finding the lighting a mixed blessing. It meant they didn’t have to stumble about in the dark any more, but now their real enemy would be able to see them coming.
They approached the room they had been told to head for and Thompson listened at the door. She need not have bothered, for just as she pressed her ear to the wood there came a terrible riot from within. Shouts, screaming curses, furniture breaking and shots fired. There was a sibilant hiss, followed by the growl of a predatory animal, a wolf or a dog, and Thompson stared at Foster in pure shock.
“We have to get in there,” Foster said. It was not only the first sensible thing she had said all night, but it was also enough to jolt Thompson back into reality.
She tried the door handle, but it was locked. The screaming intensified and Thompson kicked the door. It shuddered but did not break. She kicked again with the same result. Taking a deep breath and noticing the riot seemed to have ended, Thompson kicked the door one final time and the lock broke. She flew into the room, knife in hand, and stopped short.
The room was a mess. It had once held a fair-sized exhibition of fossils, but bones and rock were spilled across the floor, amidst glass and plastic. A tyrannosaurus skull lay shattered before her, a life-size model of some form of ceratops lay on its side, a gaping wound in its side where someone’s legs dangled from its torso. There were six people lying in various states of unconsciousness. They were bruised, battered, and suffering from cuts – one man appeared to have had his head slammed through a display case – and Thompson wondered whether any of them were still alive.
Within the centre of it
all stood a frowning Jeremiah.
“What happened here?” Thompson demanded. “What did you do?”
“What did I do? I just got here.”
“What happened to these people?”
Jeremiah fixed her with cold eyes. “I. Just. Got. Here.”
“Guys!” Foster called, crouching over one man. Thompson could see his body had been raked by talons or claws of some sort and she suddenly remembered the growling dog she had heard.
“Where’s the dog?” she asked Jeremiah.
“Gone, evidently,” he replied, glancing about him. “None of these people match Stockwell’s description of Gorlinger.”
“This isn’t good,” Thompson said. “Gorlinger’s taken Baronaire.” When Jeremiah did not reply she narrowed her eyes. She could see by his expression as he looked about he was not entirely surprised at this mess. “All right,” she said, folding her arms, “spill.”
“What?”
“What’s going on? You know more than you’re telling and it’s making us lose Baronaire every time.”
“You’re the detective, you figure it out.”
“Just give me a straight answer for once.”
Jeremiah seemed far too antsy to be concealing much of anything. “We have to get out of here,” he said. “I don’t know where he’s going but I should be able to track him.”
“Gorlinger?”
“Baronaire.”
“Where would Gorlinger have taken him?”
And then Jeremiah’s eyes fell upon hers and a chill ran down her spine. “My dear detective,” he said, “look around you. Gorlinger didn’t beat up his own people. No, I think he pushed one button too many and found the beast within.”
“What do you ...?”
“Gorlinger hasn’t taken Baronaire anywhere. Baronaire’s taken Gorlinger. And if he kills him, Sanders will have his head.”
“So where do we start looking?”
“Contact Stockwell, see what you can find out,” Jeremiah said as he headed for the door.
“But you just said this was all down to Baronaire. You’re side-lining me.”
“Yes,” Jeremiah said at the door. “But at least I’m man enough to admit it.”
Thompson ran after him, but as she broke into the corridor it was to find he was already gone. She hadn’t realised anyone could move that fast, but didn’t stop to think about it. “Foster, come on.” They ran to the car, which strangely enough Jeremiah had abandoned. Thompson started the engine, having a set of keys herself. She had no idea where Jeremiah was going, but he was right about one thing. She was a detective and if she couldn’t follow him she wasn’t a very good one.
And if she wasn’t a detective, Jen Thompson knew she wasn’t much of anything.
CHAPTER SIX
Gorlinger was afraid. His eyes bulged with sheer terror, his face streaming with tears and rain. He stumbled backwards, his suit torn and soiled. With his five hundred pound haircut and six grand suit, Gorlinger was a man to whom money meant nothing. He toyed with it as much as with other people’s lives: he was king of his empire.
Baronaire gazed upon him with pity and revulsion.
They were upon the flat rooftop of an office building thirty storeys tall. No one could see them, no one knew they were there. The night was all powerful, and with Baronaire’s anger had come the storm. He did not recall much of the night, indeed a great deal of the past few days was a complete blur. All he knew for certain were the emotions churning within him.
Anger.
Hate.
Hunger.
It may not have been an emotion, but hunger ruled Baronaire’s mind now. He watched as Gorlinger wailed upon the floor, shuffling backwards, slipping in the pooling rainwater. But there was nowhere to go. Baronaire stood before him, no smile upon his lips. He was dressed in tatty trousers and nothing else. His shoes he had lost during the night, his shirt he never recalled even wearing. He was aware of stinging pains across his torso as the rain mercilessly hammered at his injuries, wondered whether that was connected with his not having a shirt; but none of that mattered right now.
The prey was running and it was Baronaire’s time to hunt.
Gorlinger stumbled, reaching the edge of the building. He gasped at the view, vertigo seizing his mind as he forced himself to look away.
Baronaire was upon him at once. He grabbed Gorlinger and span him. The man stumbled, his face striking the cement marking the edge of the building. Baronaire took him in strong hands and raised him in the air. Gorlinger was weeping, pleading, and Baronaire held him over the edge, straightening his arm to its fullest extent. Gorlinger held onto the arm frantically, his legs kicking, his eyes screaming pure terror. Still Baronaire did not smile. Instead he closed his eyes and drank the man’s fear.
And then he smiled.
“You’re a powerful man,” Baronaire told him simply. “In your world.”
“Please ... I can get you anything. Anything!”
“Control,” Baronaire said, his eyes still closed. “You control the flow of millions, and I can’t even control myself.” His eyes snapped open. He could feel his body surge with energy from the storm. “And I’m still the one holding your life in my hand.”
“You can’t kill me,” Gorlinger was crying. “You’ll be hunted, you won’t ever be safe.”
“No,” Baronaire said, “but I’ll be in a better position than you.”
He span, tossing the frightened man. Gorlinger fell into an antenna, slicing his hands as he attempted to rise. The fresh wave of blood flowed through the air upon invisible strands, the nectar bliss to Baronaire’s senses.
“That’s enough.”
Baronaire stopped, training curious eyes across the rooftop. There was another man there, a man he should recognise. He was tall, slim, with short dark hair and a thin beard and moustache. He was dressed casually and stood with the conviction of a sentry.
“Jeremiah,” Baronaire said. And then his smile broadened. “My old friend! You’ve come to join the feast.”
But Jeremiah’s face betrayed no elation. Instead he stood his ground and replied very calmly, very slowly. “Charles, you’ve gone too far. I know it’s not your fault, I know what they did to you. You’ve retreated into yourself. They tortured you and you’ve gone into hiding. This is what you are, Charles, but you can’t let it control you. Fight it and it can work for you. Give in to it and Sanders will kill you.”
“This man,” Baronaire said, pointing at Gorlinger in the pelting rain. “He is pestilence.”
“You kill him and you’ll die,” Jeremiah told him simply. “He’s not worth that. You have a mission, remember? We came to WetFish together. Do you remember that?”
Baronaire frowned. The memories were fighting for release: at the very edges of his mind he could feel sanity stabbing at him. But he shook his head violently. He had no time for this; why was Jeremiah talking about the past anyway?
“Get lost,” Baronaire said. “Get your own kill.”
“I’m here to stop you, Charles.”
“Last chance, pal.”
“And yours.”
Baronaire pounced, but his fingers slipped through the fine white mist which had replaced Jeremiah. The thick fog enveloped him, constricting him, choking him, and Baronaire flailed uselessly with his fists even as the mist pressed against his eyes and ears, forcing down his senses. With a primal roar, Baronaire snapped a throttling hand deep into the mist and it dissipated quickly as he hauled Jeremiah into the air by the throat. Jeremiah struggled within his grasp and Baronaire could see annoyance, even hatred, shining through his eyes. Snarling, Baronaire tightened his grip, but suddenly he doubled over as Jeremiah kicked him in the chest, hard. He fell, sliding in the rain, coming into an easy crouch.
Hissing, Jeremiah lunged, and Baronaire met the charge. Once more Jeremiah’s form altered, and Baronaire reached into the mist, pulling hard and forcing him back to his corporeal state, swinging him about by the leg and flinging hi
m aside. Jeremiah landed upon one hand, pushing himself upwards to once more alter form. But Baronaire would not allow him such a strategy and threw himself into the mist once more, catching Jeremiah in the chest and sending both men rolling. Baronaire fully expected his foe to take advantage of the confusion of their roll, although as he came to his feet it was to see Jeremiah standing some distance away, assessing the situation. Jeremiah’s eyes narrowed and Baronaire set firm his feet for the charge he knew was about to come.
Jeremiah leaped for him, but Baronaire was faster this time, jumping backwards and landing on an aerial, his weight hardly even bending the metal. Jeremiah jumped after him and Baronaire sprang, vaulting over his head, landing at the edge of the building and toppling over, shooting down the side of the building like a stone. The air whipped about him, the storm battering him as though in defiance of his flight, but Baronaire felt his grin spread wide across his face. There was a reason he was the master of the storm, and even such a plunge as this only broadened his mind further as to the joys of life.
Jeremiah was by his side in freefall, and Baronaire felt irked that he could steal such a private moment, but had no time in which to consider for Jeremiah grabbed his leg and yanked hard. The two men went tumbling, both grabbing hold of the building’s side, sliding several metres before they were able to maintain their hold. Baronaire was the first to recover, scuttling back up as though he was part spider, and seconds behind him came Jeremiah.
Reaching the roof first, Baronaire span and waited patiently for Jeremiah. He knew his antagonist was but moments behind him and prepared himself for the coming attack. The black form which shot over the roof was no man, however, and it gave Baronaire no opportunity to evade its lunge as it snapped open terrifying jaws and came down hard upon him. The dark wolf collided with Baronaire, its sheer strength knocking him from his feet, its powerful teeth sinking into Baronaire’s arm and throwing the confusing scent of freshly-spilled blood into the air.