by Mark Gardner
“Yes, Ma’am, but Justin asked me to come get you.”
Anne sighed. “What’s he doing that’s so important that he can’t make it here?” Her voice echoed.
The envoy looked down at the floor but didn’t respond.
“Damn it!” Anne pushed herself up on her elbows. The masseuse deep in his trade stepped back as Anne rotated her hips and swung her long legs off the table. She sat, cross-legged, and regarded the envoy standing just inside the door. The young man looked away as Anne’s towel fell away revealing the massage was a naked one.
Anne reached for an itch on her shoulder blade. The movement emphasized her bust, and the envoy visibly reddened. “I can step outside, Ma’am.”
Anne looked down and wiped away massage oil from her breast. “I’m too old to worry that you might get a sneak peak, boy.”
“Yes... Uh...” He stammered. “Yes, Ma’am.”
Anne rolled her eyes and lie on her back on the table. She allowed the towel to fall away and the masseuse stepped forward to work on her thighs. Anne placed a washcloth over her eyes before speaking up. “Well?”
“Ma’am?”
She lifted the washcloth, uncovering an eye and tilted her head. “What does Justin want?”
“He didn’t elaborate, Ma’am, just that it’s about Joaquin.”
Anne replaced the washcloth. “Tell him we’ll need to pay Joaquin a visit.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
A smile was revealed below Anne’s washcloth. “Don’t stand there gawking. Get to it.”
“We need to visit Joaquin, yes, Ma’am.”
Anne heard the door latch shut. She lifted the washcloth again. To the masseuse, she said, “I’m gonna need a little extra today before I go to work.”
Lil’ Cee’s lifeless eyes stared toward the crumbling ceiling. Joaquin wasn’t sure, but he would’ve sworn the last thing Lil’ Cee saw was the hideous Alien Mona Lisa painting. Joaquin stood defiantly over the body. Blood pooled, seeping from the broad smile on Lil’ Cee’s neck. Why so serious? thought Joaquin.
The rest of the Kings stared. More than one could see the long tear on Joaquin’s shirt. The edges were straight, the product of a single slice. The long knife responsible still rested in Lil’ Cee’s hand. Joaquin smiled when Lil’ Cee’s blade slashed across his chest. He’d need a new shirt, but getting respect had its own price.
“I’ve taken out Lil’ Cee,” Joaquin announced to the gang. “So, I’ll be taking over now.”
The faces of the gang members didn’t tell him much, but he knew they didn’t understand him. Joaquin squared his shoulders, puffed his chest out, waved his knife over his head and declared, “Join me or die.”
Detective Frank Massey peeled back layers of newspaper and spray paint.
Different organizations had attempted over the years to revitalize the neighborhood. Some saw it as a complete waste of money. Massey didn’t subscribe to that thought process. The money that made its way to the neighborhood wasn’t a waste, but it was definitely allocated all wrong. It wasn’t as simple as hanging up a fancy chandelier in the vestibule of a brownstone. He wasn’t the person to decide how, when, or where to spend the money, but the current way of doing things just wasn’t working.
The problem wasn’t a lack of desire to improve the community. There was plenty of desire. Unlike other cities, the gangs didn’t have the same reach they did elsewhere. They were just as violent; just as many drugs, but where cities like Los Angeles and Chicago had relatively few players... This city has too many different gangs, Massey thought. They constantly warred, and no one had enough street cred to unify the gangs. The narcotics and gang divisions still had enough work. If someone charismatic were to unite the gangs, there would definitely be problems for Massey and his brothers in blue.
Despite the residential improvement that came and went with the political climate, the warehouse district hadn’t changed in several decades. If there was a gang that had the potential to consolidate, it was the Kings. The gang’s leader, Lil’ Cee, was an unofficial informant. There was no paperwork and no formal relationship with the police department, but if you wanted info on a particular crime or gangster that Lil’ Cee felt had crossed some sort of line, the Kings were known to be... not helpful, Massey thought, but at least not combative. If the world were a different place, Massey imagined the Kings might be some sort of youth league. He smiled at the thought of tattooed gangsters playing soccer or collecting food.
Massey worked on the window. Despite the years on the force, he was still out of place in his precinct. The window was useless. No matter how many layers he pulled up, there were still more blocking his view of the interior of the warehouse. He hadn’t seen sentries or lookouts in the regular places. The Kings refused to allow anyone to join under the age of fourteen, so there wasn’t the cliché of kids playing outside and acting as lookouts.
Massey leaned into a door that should’ve been guarded and listened for the sounds of partying or other noises. The warehouse was never empty. The Kings made sure of that.
Massey considered calling for backup, but he wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place. It wasn’t a jurisdictional issue, but coming here wasn’t a move a lone detective with as many years on the street as he did should be doing. He took a few steps into the warehouse before thinking better of his actions.
He decided to leave and come back with backup when he swore he heard sniffling. It wasn’t someone with a cold or the call of the coke-head, but the sound of a child crying. Massey tried to resist the pull of someone in trouble, but one unsure step followed the next before he realized he was through the maze of repurposed admin offices and hallways. He stood before a double door. It was steel and had a lock bar spanning the opening.
The crying was loudest here and Massey reached out to touch the bar. There was a layer of corrosion that seemed out of place and it appeared the door had been barred from this side. Massey lifted the bar. It felt rough – the corrosion had been doing its thing for years.
The bar freed, Massey put his shoulder into the doors. They groaned and he froze. I know how you feel, he thought as he rubbed his shoulder. Surely whoever is crying heard that. He strained his ears, but the crying didn’t stop. Resolved to uncover who was crying, Massey pushed the stubborn doors open with a loud clang.
The scene on the other side of the door was something Massey had never seen. As a veteran, he had seen the atrocities of combat, but his military service and almost three decades on the force couldn’t have prepared him for the piles of bodies. Some were facing the door, perhaps trying to escape. Some wielded guns and knives as if trying to protect themselves from an attacker. Unlike the movies, there was no smell of cordite permeating. Black powder and the expansion gasses did have their own subtle smell, but several of the bodies had soiled themselves and any telltale odors were masked by the smell of urine and as clichéd as it was, fear.
Massey surveyed the bodies and scanned the carnage for the source of the sobbing. Standing in what could be considered the ‘middle’ of the pile stood a crying figure.
“Are you all right?” Massey called out.
The shoulders of the figure rose and fell with sobs. The dim light made identifying the figure difficult. There wasn’t any immediate threat that Massey could discern, so he slowly stepped over and around the bodies toward the... A man? he thought. The crying reminded Massey of a young child; maybe ten or twelve, but this modus operandi didn’t match the Kings.
As he got closer, he was able to make out the figure. The man’s dark complexion made him hard to see. When Massey was only six or seven feet away, his hand immediately went to his service weapon.
“Joaquin!” he shouted.
Joaquin didn’t respond. Massey was close enough to see the youth shuddering. As he moved around to see Joaquin’s face, he kept his hand on his holster.
Joaquin’s eyes were vacant. He stared at the body of Lil’ Cee. A gash across Lil’ Cee’s throat had bled
him dry. Joaquin held a knife loosely in his hand. Massey drew his weapon, trained it of Joaquin and reached for the knife. Joaquin offered no resistance and fell to his knees, his now empty hands covering his face.
“What happened here?” Massey tried to keep his voice steady. He had seen broken men. Men without hope. Men who would later take their own life if society was lucky; more if they weren’t. Massey tried to ignore a growing dread in the pit of his stomach. The usually cocky Joaquin turned to Massey.
Joaquin reached up and touched a bloodied cheek. “She killed them all,” he whispered.
“Who?”
“Anne.”
Massey glanced around and shook his head. “I don’t think so. She weighs what? A buck twenty-five?”
Joaquin stared mouth agape. “She said it was an abject lesson.”
When Joaquin said ‘abject,’ Massey’s heart pounded in his chest. The word was not necessarily one found in the projects. Massey doubted it was part of Joaquin’s vocabulary.
“She died again and again,” Joaquin whispered. “She blew away two dudes with a hand cannon before we got the drop on her.”
“So who killed the rest?”
Joaquin turned, voice rising. “Don’t you see, man, she killed them all!”
“But, you said you got the drop on her.”
“We did.” Joaquin looked down at his soiled jeans. “She got up off the floor and started icing fools like nothing.”
“I’m not buying your shit. Tell me who did this.”
“Arrest me.”
“What?”
You gotta protect me from her. Her dress hid the blood, but her face, man... her face.”
Massey held his breath waiting for Joaquin to regain his composure.
“The blood splattered on her face...” Joaquin took a deep breath. “She couldn’t hide it, man. She couldn’t...”
“Hide what?”
“The monster inside her. She laughed, man. The fuckin’ bitch got off on it.”
Lessons Learned
Peter climbed out if his bed and straightened the five layers of blankets and animal furs. His fireplace had burnt down to embers, but he ignored it - today he had work to do.
Peter felt the weight of the shovel across his shoulders. He squeezed the handle and felt the imperfections he knew were there. He walked the perimeter of his cabin selecting five spots with sight lines favorable for tree-line reconnaissance.
At the site of the first selection, Peter’s shovel bit into the ground. Working the muddy slurry by hand would be difficult and would take most of the day. Peter devoured his task and whistled a tune he remembered from his childhood.
Peter ignored what embers remained in his fireplace, but he couldn’t ignore the messy bed. Site one was complete; he had worked through breakfast and lunch. When his pit reached ten feet, his stomach demanded he stop for the day.
Peter grabbed the shovel leaning against the railing and walked swiftly, but stiffly, to site number two. His joints creaked and complained as he turned over shovel after shovel of muddy earth. This pit would take longer than the last one, but Peter was determined to finish in time for dinner. He paused and looked over his shoulder at site one and the wooden ladder sticking out. Then he returned to digging, whistling a tune popular in the 1980s.
Peter woke and stared at the roof of his cabin for a few minutes. His shoulders and arms begged him to stay under the furs and blankets a little longer. He felt he barely had the strength to lift them and scurry into the cold cabin. Scant heat radiated from the neglected fireplace.
Finally, he willed his muscles to free himself from the warm embrace of sleep. He staggered toward the door after painstakingly fixing his bed and dressing for the weather and the task at hand.
At site three his shovel bit into the ground and he had to lean into it with all his weight to get the metal deep into the mud. It took longer than it had yesterday and even longer than the day before, but once he had a rhythm going, he began to whistle a tune released in 1982.
Peter woke from a deep sleep. Despite being under layers of blankets and furs, his teeth chattered. His cabin was as cold as the outside - his fireplace having been neglected for three days now.
He fought his way from under the piles. Hands shaking, he laced his boots and stood in the middle of his cabin for a few minutes. He willed his feet to move toward the door and his task for the day, but they refused to move.
It was excruciating, but he placed one foot in front of the other. “Five steps,” he said aloud. The echo from the tall roof did little to reassure him. After five steps, he renewed his effort and gained five more.
He repeated this herculean effort again and again until he reached site four. His shovel dragged through the snow and left a peculiar zig-zag trail. “Need to cover my tracks,” he whispered, his breath visible briefly before the wind stole it and left frigidity in its wake. It was lunchtime before Peter hit his stride and began whistling a tune that he heard on the radio for the first time during the spring of 1982.
Peter woke, but his eyes refused to open. His shaggy beard was frozen and his eyes felt heavy as if something was holding them closed. He tried to wiggle his fingers and after a few attempts he was able to, but he felt dampness through the gloves he wore. He sat up and opened his eyes to see a field of white.
He rolled over to see his pit trap at site four. Calling this one a pit trap was an insult to pit traps across the ages. It was barely four feet deep and his ladder was still at site three. He sat up like he was performing an exercise routine, grunting and clamping his teeth through the pain. The muscles in his abdomen screamed as he got to a sitting position. His stomach rumbled to remind him that not only had he not made it back to the cabin, but he had also missed his dinner the day before.
He tried to push himself into a standing position, but his arms hung at his sides. Twisting at the waist, he felt his arms flail out momentarily. Flopping back on the muddy ground, he pushed with his legs and made only about three feet of progress. Drawing his legs to his chest, he planted his heels into the slop and pushed. He watched the sun move across the horizon as he conquered four feet at a time. The sun was behind his cabin and darkness was rising when he hit his head on something. He closed his eyes in preparation of maneuvering himself to see what he had hit.
Peter opened his eyes to the same twilight he had closed them to, but the sun now shone on the horizon at his feet. Straining to sit up, he was acutely aware of a weight on his chest. He looked down and saw a brown mass covering his body. Knowing it was a worthless effort; he tried to push it off with his arms. When his arms deferred to his will, he was shocked.
“I thought I’d die out here,” he whispered.
He craned his neck and twisted at the waist to see the brown mass. It was a light brown with streaks of gray and dirty white. Peter sat up and looked down to see lifeless eyes looking up at him. He pulled his glove off and placed his hand on the head of the creature that had given its own life to save his. The fur was coarse and Peter began to cry. He remembered feeling this same way almost twenty years ago.
Peter staggered down the steps of the local police station. “Insufficient evidence,” the public defender had said as he rummaged through an envelope containing his wallet and wedding band.
“They’ll likely want to interview you further as their investigation unfolds.
Peter thanked the Public Defender, and shook his hand. He maintained a nonchalant attitude all the way to the bus terminal. He purchased a ticket north and hid in the restroom until the appointed departure time.
Murmurs of concern permeated through the travelers that day – especially those who used the men’s restroom. The rumor of a man locked in a toilet stall sobbing was on everyone’s lips. When a porter was asked to check in on the man, the stall was empty and the floor littered with crumpled up toilet paper.
The rumor appeared to have died immediately following the departure of bus number five to Vancouver, British Columbia.
Peter stood looking out a window of his cabin. The rumbling in his stomach had ceased less than an hour prior. He turned, finished the coffee in his mug and began the process of wrapping the remaining hunks of meat from the wolf. The cabin was awash in heat and smells of his cooking fire. The pelt of the wolf lay on a makeshift drying rack. He’d tan it in the next few days and decided he would keep it with him always.
After the ‘leftovers’ of the wolf had been secured in his icebox, Peter returned to the window. He could see the mounds of dirt and debris marking four of the planned five pitfall traps. He eyed the woods beyond the traps identifying wood for to cover the trap openings. He still had to finish number four and number five before building up the dirt around the traps to conceal them.
After what happened at the post office... He thought as he looked at the calendar on the wall... last week... he didn’t finish the thought but vowed to protect himself by whatever means necessary.
He prepared to retire for the night. He had retrieved his shovel and ladder and they leaned against the cabin wall on the porch, a testament to the events of the last few days. The fire in the fireplace would burn down to embers by the morning, so he made sure his pile of tinder and logs sat at the ready.
As he lay down covered by furs and blankets, a song released on May 29, 1982, rolled around in his brain until sleep finally took him.
“Join me or die.”
A voice piped up from the back of the room. “You’re doing it all wrong, boy.”
Everyone in the room turned to see a woman in an ankle-length, skin tight red dress. Had anyone in the room known more about women’s fashion, they would’ve appreciated the matching kitten heel pumps. What they lacked in fashion sense, they more than made up for in appreciating the female body. The dress was sheen – silk or some other expensive fabric. No breaks or lines where a bra or panties would’ve shown. All the men in the room knew the she wasn’t wearing anything under the expensive dress.