by Lex H Jones
The walk to the Seven Saints hospital seemed to take less time than it had before, and Carl wondered whether it was the new sense of hope he was feeling regarding the whole situation. An eagerness in his muscles to get there quickly, to see how the young friend he’d made was doing. Quite a few weeks it had been, Carl thought to himself. He’d made a friend who’d probably remember him the rest of her life and slept with a woman the likes of which he could only have dreamed of. It wasn’t all roses, though. There was still the matter of why Taylor and his gang boys had marked him and Felicity for dead, why Amber was still haunting him, and who had murdered Queen Bea, the drag artist. Carl didn’t mind, though. He liked being busy. Kept his mind active, kept him focussed. Downtime was bad, it would lead to too much time alone with his thoughts, which always went to dark places given the chance. Not tonight, though. Tonight Carl actually felt a warmth in him, a feeling of excitement at seeing Skye’s happy smile as she saw him arrive. He stopped at a store vendor and purchased some flowers as he walked by. Carl couldn’t remember the last time he’d even contemplated doing something like that. Maybe for his mom on some birthday decades ago.
The colourful bouquet contrasted greatly with the grey and dismal interior of the hospital as Carl walked through the door. The desk attendant was a young male this time, skinny and with glasses that kept sliding down his nose. He was sorting through some paperwork when Carl walked in and didn’t seem to notice the Detective until Carl tapped on the raised desk.
“Hm? Oh, hello,” the receptionist smiled.
“I’m here to see someone. I called in a couple days ago, her name’s Skye.”
“Do you have a surname for her?”
“Um, no...” Carl said meekly, rolling his eyes and cursing himself for never having asked the girl.
“That’s okay, I’ll be able to find her if you give me a few more details?”
“Well she was being treated for drugs, heroin to be exact. Purple hair, about seventeen years old. She was in room number twelve.”
“Ah, that helps a lot,” he smiled, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose once more as he started sifting through some files. “Room twelve... ah here we are. Oh, it would seem she was discharged earlier today.”
“Discharged by who? She was supposed to be signing up for a rehab programme.”
“There’s some notes, it says she was taken home by a friend. He paid for her meds and said he’d arrange for her to be taken to the rehab clinic over the bridge. It’s much better than the one we have here, I wouldn’t worry about her. I can get you the address if you...”
“What friend?” Carl asked as a thick black bile began to fill his guts.
“Hm?”
“Who was it that took her home?” Carl said again, trying to keep his voice calm despite the black ooze seeping up into his throat. He could hear his heart beating behind his eyes like a massive drum pounding away the feelings of happiness and hope that he had felt mere moments ago.
“He signed the sheet here, let me just... ah, it was a very generous gentleman who actually made a donation as well. His name was Taylor.”
“No... dear God, no...” Carl said quietly as he heard the Devil laughing over his shoulder.
The flowers dropped to the floor at Carl’s side as he turned and ran out of the hospital, his shoulder banging against the door that he hadn’t fully opened before passing through it. The pain didn’t even register; all he was aware of was the pounding of his feet against the cold, hard street. The shockwave of each footfall travelled up his legs and resonated with the beating of his heart. Carl knew where he was running, even though it seemed like his feet would take him there before his mind had remembered the directions; The Electric Dragon, an underground music club that was once the height of live music in the City. Live bands had long since crossed the City off their tour list, so it became home to illegal raves and whoever else could break in and hold their own “event’s” there. Over the last few years it had become the party-central base of operations for the Jolly Rogers. If Taylor had said he was taking Skye ‘home’, then the Dragon was where it would be. Carl took his phone from his pocket, dialling a number as he ran across the Steel Gate Bridge.
“Pick up pick up pick up...” he muttered as his breath struggled to reach his lungs fast enough to give him the oxygen needed for this sudden excursion.
“Hello, Detective. Calling to ask if I’m still alive?” Came the voice of Charles Pope.
“Pope, listen to me and don’t ask questions, alright?” Carl yelled as he ran.
“What is it?”
“Get to the Electric Dragon... now. I’ll pay you whatever you want, just get there fast, and wait for me,” Carl instructed. “And Pope?”
“Yes?”
“Bring guns.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven;
Who Went First?
T he sign outside the Electric Dragon was illuminated with a series of bright blue bulbs, despite the fact that the club was long since closed for legitimate business. Still, if you had enough money you could rent the place no questions asked, legitimate or otherwise. Taylor had enough money, more than enough in fact. The club itself was little more than a basement with a stage set up and a bar in the far corner. It used to be plastered with posters of bands that had played there and reviews from local newspapers, but now it was painted with hideous neon tones in the style of the Jolly Rogers themselves.
Pirate flags hung from the walls and some fake palm trees had even been stuck in the corners alongside empty barrels labelled ‘Whisky’. There were two doors to enter the place, one at the front and one at the back, both of which led to a small set of stairs down to the club floor. It was at the front entrance that Carl now stood, his fists clenched so tightly that he could almost hear the skin stretching across his knuckles.
From behind the metal door, Carl could hear the pounding, angry bass of whatever it was the Rogers called music. They played it loud through the speakers to cover up the sounds of their activities down there. It was just easier for them if nobody knew; less people to pay off. But Carl knew, he’d fished enough young girls out of the Styx to know exactly what the group of hedonistic pricks got up to in the Electric Dragon. He hoped that tonight might be different, but he’d already been screwed over once for allowing himself to believe in something as fragile as hope. Best case scenario was that they are all shooting up listening to their Hard-House bullshit, Skye back on the needle like any other junkie. The worst case scenario was something that Carl couldn’t bear to think of.
A deep breath entered Carl’s lungs, the ice cold biting against his insides as he sucked it in, and then his foot slammed into the metal door. The crash it made against the adjacent wall was so loud that it caught the attention of the dozen-or-so Jolly Rogers crowded round on the floor below, even over their pounding music. Carl leaned over the rail to stare at the faces looking up at him, and his eyes instantly recognised the face of ‘Captain’ Zack Taylor. His makeup was a neon green skull, no different than any of the rest of his crew, but Taylor was audacious enough to wear a black tri-corner hat, effectively marking him out in the crowd. With a satisfied nod that he was in the right place, Carl descended the stairs and kept his hand ready to draw his gun.
The firearm against his left side was comforting to him, much more so than it had been the previous night when faced with this many neon pirates. The difference now, of course, was that they weren’t armed. Taylor had his rules about this place, one of which was ‘no guns allowed’. The reasoning behind this was simple; getting a bunch of crazy freaks high on drugs in a small room with pounding music often led to raised tempers, and fights were inevitable. Having his crew smack the crap out of each other was fine, having them shoot each other in the skull was another matter. It had happened once and Taylor was forced to start a recruitment drive to replenish his numbers. Since then, the nights spent in the Electric Dragon were strictly gun-free. Idiots.
“I’m sorry, Boyo, this club is for Pirates onl
y. If you’re looking to be a member, there’s a joining fee,” Taylor smiled, taking a slight bow as Carl stood before the small crowd.
“Not interested.”
“Wait, wait... you’re Detective Duggan, aren’t you? Well isn’t that interesting, I’ve been trying to make your acquaintance for—”
“Move aside. All of you,” Carl instructed, catching a glimpse of something soft and white on the floor behind the numerous baggy trousers and boots that blocked his vision in the already-dark club.
“We’re just having some fun, no reason to be—”
“Move aside... now.” Carl said again, this time drawing his gun and pointing it directly at Taylor’s forehead.
“Alright, calm down big guy.” Taylor conceded, taking a step to his left and letting his fellow pirates part like the Red Sea.
Carl’s speculations about the night’s activities for the Rogers were answered in cold and brutal fashion as he saw what had caught his eye behind the gathered throng—it was the worst-case scenario. Skye was laid on the floor, naked and badly bruised, blood staining her inner thighs in the aftermath of repeated rapes. Her eyes were wide open but lifeless, her jaw swollen from where her screaming and crying had been forcibly brought to an end by whoever had been the first to grow sick of it. Her purple hair was half-covering her face, stuck there with the mixture of sweat, blood and semen that clung to her skin. Carl walked over to her and crouched down at her side, touching his fingers against her neck despite knowing that it was a pointless effort. With a long sigh, he gently closed the girl’s eyelids, then took his phone from his pocket and dialled a number. He let it ring twice, and then without saying a word he hung up the phone. The rear door to the club instantly opened, much to the surprise of the gathered pirates.
“Holy shit, that’s...” one of the Rogers trailed off as he saw the silhouette of the tall, long-coated bald man stood in the doorway.
“I know who that is, you idiot,” Taylor snapped, trying to hide the obvious panic in his own voice.
Pope looked down at Carl and the girl he was crouched beside. Carl met the hit-man’s eyes and solemnly shook his head, to which Pope made the sign of the cross on his chest and mouthed a silent prayer.
“Okay, we obviously have a problem here, Detective,” said Taylor, raising his hands in submission, “But I’m quite willing to solve it for you. If this girl owed you some money, I can repay it for you. If you were expecting the pleasure of her company, I have plenty of girls that—”
“Who went first?” Carl asked, his eyes fixed on the broken young girl at his feet.
“I’m sorry?” Taylor asked, leaning forward slightly.
“Who got their rocks off first? Who broke her in?”
One of the Rogers raised his hand and said; “Well, I guess that’d be me, but—”
The speaker didn’t finish his sentence before Carl’s bullet tore through his throat and out the back of his neck. Blood spurted forward like a fountain as the pirate dropped to his knees, then slumped lifeless to the ground like a marionette cut from its strings. The other Pirates took a step back and glanced at the rear exit, only to find that Pope was now stood on the club floor at their back, each hand holding a Beretta.
“We can discuss this... anything you want, I can get you...” Taylor insisted.
“Pope,” said Carl, looking over at his partner. “I need Taylor alive. That’s all.”
Pope nodded and the carnage began. Bullets from the only three guns in the club tore into the Jolly Rogers, ending the lives of those they hit with deadly accuracy. Three of the pirates tried to escape by taking the staircase down which Carl had come, but the Detective wasn’t going to let them leave. No one was going to leave here. Not tonight. If Skye couldn’t walk out of here, then the rest of them could join her in the blackness. They could end the night laying in a pool of their own blood on the cold, dirty floor, just like her. Carl’s bullet tore through the kneecap of the first would-be escapee, sending him crashing back down the steel staircase and bringing his two companions with him. As they landed in an awkward heap at the base of the stairwell, Carl simply leaned over them and placed a bullet in the head of each one of them.
The detective turned in time to see Pope holding a gun against Taylor’s head, who was now bleeding from his right thigh and struggling to stand upright. A quick glance around the floor revealed that every other attending member of the Rogers was dead, Pope’s guns having done what they always did with disturbing efficiency. Carl nodded at Pope and then walked over to Skye, wrapping her in his leather coat and lifting her limp, frail form off the ground.
“I need to know why he was sent after me and Felicity,” said Carl, looking directly at Pope. “I need to know who he was working for and what they want. How you find out is up to you, I won’t tell you how to do your job.”
“I’ll call you with the information,” Pope nodded, keeping the barrel of one of his guns pressed firmly against Taylor’s head.
Carl turned and started to walk back up the staircase with Skye in his arms, forcing himself not to cry but finding that a single tear still made its way down his cheek to drip onto her soft white face.
“Detective Duggan,” Pope called after him. “She will be at peace now. God will welcome her into his home.”
“He’d damn well better,” Carl replied with a low growl as he left the club with the dead girl in his arms.
Chapter Twenty-Eight;
Two Dots Make A Line
“G lass will take care of everything, Duggan, don’t worry about it,” Detective Trent insisted as he spoke to Carl on his cell-phone. “He can make her look just like she was alive, you’ve seen his work. She’ll look beautiful for her funeral, and we’ll get the state to pay for it and—”
“No. State funded means ‘cruddy’. I’ll pay for it,” Carl insisted.
“Funerals ai’t exactly cheap, Duggan. They can run up to—”
“I’ll pay, Trent.”
“Okay, if it means that much to you. Glass says he’ll sort all the arrangements, you just send him a cheque, alright? He’s going out of his way to help you here, I couldn’t help but notice. I asked him why and he just said that he owes you a favour.”
“Yeah, I guess he does.”
“What’d you do? Catch him high as a kite again?”
“Something like that,” Carl replied.
“You going to tell me how she died?”
“Glass can tell you that.”
“Glass already told me she was gang-raped and beaten, but I get the feeling that you can tell me who was responsible.”
“You’re right, I could.”
“But you’re not going to, are you?” Trent sighed.
“No.”
“Any particular reason why?”
“Because they’re already dead, so it’s not like you can arrest any of ‘em. And even if they weren’t, you still wouldn’t arrest any of ‘em.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Trent asked, somewhat defensively.
“Because they’re not the kind of guys we arrest, Trent. It’s all in the pages of the unofficial rule book.”
“What did you do, Carl?” Trent asked as he swallowed the lump in his throat.
“Nothing you’re gonna hear about because the only person who witnessed it and walked away isn’t likely to be contacting the police.”
“Who was it you messed with? Tell me a name, Carl.”
“Taylor and his boys.”
“Oh Christ. Oh Jesus fucking Christ,” Trent whispered. “What are you... why... Jesus, Carl, there’s a reason we don’t mess with guys like him!”
“I’ve heard all of ‘em a thousand times from guys higher up the chain than you, Trent. And you know what? None of them are worth shit when weighed against the fact that there’s a dead seventeen year-old lying in Glass’s morgue right now.”
“I know, Carl, it’s all messed up, but—”
“But nothing, Trent,” Carl stopped him. “Taylor crossed a line,
one that the rule-book of bullshit corruption wasn’t going to protect him from. The law couldn’t touch him, so the law didn’t. It’s that simple.”
“Is he dead?”
“Probably is by now. Depends how long he holds out.”
“I’m not going to ask what that means.”
“Better that you don’t,” Carl agreed.
“Can we forget about this now? ‘Cause if you’re up for it I have something for you. I wanted to tell you when you brought the girl to the morgue last night, but... well you had enough on your plate and I didn’t want to... over-burden you, I guess.”
“I appreciate that,” Carl said quietly. “What do you have? More information about our drag artist?”
“Yes and no.”
“What kind of answer is that?”
“The kind where we got another victim killed with the same M.O. The kind that makes us think we now have a serial killer on our hands.”
“Two dots make a line, not a pattern, Trent.”
“The vic was an ‘out there’ gay guy, lived alone, friends with his neighbours, and now he’s dead. Didn’t have enemies, wasn’t a performer or a man-whore or anything like the first guy. Nothing in common except the fact that he was queer. That sounds serial, Duggan.”
“Maybe, but I don’t want to jump to that conclusion without at least looking into it,” Carl conceded. “Look, I take it the crime scene’s already been worked over?”
“Yeah. I know this is your case, but they found him last night and like I said I didn’t want to force you to—”
“It’s fine, Trent,” Carl assured him. “Get the details sent over to me, would you? The reports and whatever Glass makes of the body. I’ll take it from there.”
“I’ll get right on it. Take it easy, buddy.”
Carl replaced the handset of his house-phone and turned to see an anxious Jimmy staring at him.
“Who was that?” he asked.
“Trent, just work stuff.”
“You said something about gay guys and I overheard something else about a serial killer,” Jimmy said nervously.