by BC Furtney
“Hi there. How much?” he inquired, glancing skittishly in his rearview.
“How much for what?” she cooed.
He hit the gas, sped off. He’d clearly been caught with his hand in the cookie jar before and knew a thing-or-two about entrapment. She strolled back to the corner, waited for the light to turn. She was lost in thought when the car passed the first time, didn’t see the driver leaning way over to get a good look before hanging a right. He’d be more obvious the second time. She reached the other curb and kept sauntering. The new boots had yet to be broken-in and her toes already stung with every step. She thought about the splitting of flesh that would occur on her feet by morning, and her heart sank. She’d almost rather take a bullet.
“Need a ride?” a voice called. She turned. A dark Lexus idled at the curb, a lanky professional-type behind the wheel. “Get in.” She locked eyes with him. He didn’t smile awkwardly, didn’t eye the rearview, didn’t blink. She bent down to the passenger window and he held her gaze, even though she was giving one hell of a cleavage shot.
“Where we goin’?” she asked.
He smiled slowly, thin lips peeling back from bleached teeth. “A house in the hills.” The lock on the passenger door sprang up. Boing.
* * * *
Facil sat at the red light, one arm draped over the wheel of his ’87 Buick Grand National, fighting off the sandman. He’d trolled the streets since late afternoon, from the eastside to the west, to the southside and back up again, watching for anyone or anything strange. He saw a lot of strangeness through his windshield. The latest victim met a gruesome end at the hands—and teeth—of some monster, and that monster was still on the loose. The problems didn’t end there. The Chief had kept their entire operation off the books and only a very select few knew what was happening every night. It wasn’t getting better. Three bodies in one week, same m.o. A rash of cannibal-killings was plaguing the city’s fringe populous—hookers, street urchins, dope fiends. In other words, the expendables. What they thought was a killer, quickly became killers, and finally killers that may not be human. But you’d think they were, most likely until it was too late. By the time they realized they had an epidemic, two dozen people lay dead. Some were sexual assaults, the rest were sex-gone-wrong, the only commonality being sex. What was the connection? Neuro tests, tissue tests, blood tests, victim studies, perp studies, lots of half-baked theories, no definite answers.
It had been going on for months, and the fact that such a lengthy and blatant murder spree was still largely unknown to the public was a testament to the Bureau Chief’s crafty handling. Spun to the press and squashed from the headlines, with victims no upstanding taxpayer would notice missing, there was no crime. Particularly when the guy in charge of public safety was a veteran police chief setting the stage for upcoming mayoral candidacy. An annual city homicide report double that of the previous year would effectively kill any political run, so Facil knew the January numbers wouldn’t reflect an accurate count. But that wasn’t his problem. His problem was getting himself and Scarla out of the mess they’d gotten into, and out in one piece.
He’d known her for years. Saw her mature from a tomboyish teenage Lolita, to the youngest female kickboxing champion in history, to a social worker and a cop’s wife—the cop. The dirty secret about the epidemic was that they became privy to it through one of their own—Landon Caulner, one of the boys, patient zero. Facil and Lannie, as he’d been nicknamed, came out of the academy together eighteen years prior, working the beat together for seven. When Lannie finally married his longtime girlfriend, Facil served as the best man. He was the best man and he knew it, but when the opportunity came to object, he bit his tongue. Via con Dios, mi amor. When it was over, he applauded like everyone else. That felt like another lifetime. For the last six months, he’d lurked in the shadows while she fucked her way through the city, leaving a body count that rivaled the crimes they were supposedly combating. She’d volunteered after all, so viola—they had a guinea pig to do the dirty work and keep it all off the department sheets. What Facil wasn’t admitting, even to himself, was that the objective itself was flawed. Worse still, the mission was doomed. And perhaps worst of all, the entire reason for his involvement lay on two more unspoken truths—one, he was smitten by Scarla Fragran, and two, he just couldn’t say no. Sitting in the office, jockeying paperwork, waiting for the shit to hit the fan somewhere just wouldn’t cut it. Somewhere along the line, he’d become a junkie for the action, couldn’t resist jumping into the fire—any fire—if only to feel how hot it burned. And if he wasn’t engulfed yet, things sure were heating up. The comfort zone. He snapped out of it, arriving at a late night coffee shop. They made a mean espresso, and as usual, he didn’t realize how tired he was until he was rubber-legging it to the door. He’d have to get some sleep soon, or else she might as well be on her own. He sat at the counter and ordered.
* * * *
The gated driveway was long, winding through carefully-groomed trees and arcing up to a house that was one of six overlooking the city, designed by a famous dead architect whose name she could never remember, but whose work she knew on sight. His touch wasn’t cheap, but money wasn’t all that was lurking. There was something else. She could feel it as clearly as if she were shuttling into a den of wolves. The driver said nothing on the ride, occasionally watching her out of the corner of his eye, his expression unreadable. He didn’t need to belie a thing, however. She already knew what he was. The car stopped in front of two massive stone pillars and the guy got out to open her door. She found it odd that help wasn’t waiting for the master’s return. Unless he was the help. He smiled, extended his arm to the front door. “You’ll find it open. Enjoy.” He watched her ass as she strolled inside.
The front door was oversized, and Scarla felt like Alice in Wonderland crossing the threshold. Or maybe Alice Cooper Goes To Hell was more like it. She entered an empty foyer, boot heels echoing on marble. Voices emanated from a cavernous room to her left, the glow of fireplace flames licking its walls and casting exaggerated floor-to-ceiling shadows of several men. In direct opposition to her sinking feeling, two stone angels sat over either side of the doorway, plucking harps and staring at her. She walked in.
Five guys, ranging in age from thirties to forties, all on the big side if not all fit, lounged on a wrap-around sofa in front of a raging fire. A massive, dormant crystal chandelier hung over their heads. One tall, dark, handsome man stood at the mantle, twirling a brandy on the rocks. His eyes sparkled at the sight of her, alerting the others, who all turned. She felt dirtied just being the object of their collective gaze. Two of them puffed Cuban cigars, the smoke hanging between them like a mushroom cloud.
“Well, well. Who might you be?” handsome asked, moving away from the fireplace to stand front and center, his eyes burning a hole through her. She didn’t miss a beat, feigning intrigue. Truth be told, she was strangely aroused, but didn’t stop to analyze the feeling or separate it from the usual adrenaline coursing through her veins.
“I’m Marla,” she lied. “And you are?”
No one answered, all giving each other sly eyes and knowing chuckles, until one on the end finally spoke. “I’ll be whatever you wanna call me.” Laughter.
Handsome moved to her, his chest inches from her face, speaking deliberately. “Call me Robert.”
She stared into his eyes. “Hello, Robert.”
He smiled. “Can I fix you a drink?” She nodded. He went to a full bar, shoveled ice into a glass.
One of the sofa guys, square-jawed and burly with slicked hair and a five o’clock shadow, patted the cushion beside him. “Welcome to the party. I’m Clive. Sit down here, let’s get to know each other.” She walked over.
“Nice boots,” someone proclaimed. She offered a smile and plopped down, careful to keep her legs together. “You can flash us, we won’t think less of ya,” one of the cigar guys said. More laughter. They ogled her like vultures. Music played low, but she didn
’t see a stereo.
A ham hock of a hand slid over her knee. She turned to see Clive’s eyes on her cleavage. “You work out?” he inquired.
“When I can,” she replied.
He sneered, winking at the guys. “You like leg lifts?”
She looked around, couldn’t believe they’d favor such juvenile come-ons. The collective dopiness was a bit of a let-down. “Mind if I smoke?” she asked, pack already in hand. Clive giggled, but no one else did. She lit up and they all sat, smoking and staring. Robert returned, held a glass in front of her face. She didn’t ask what it was before taking it. He lifted her from the sofa and drew her close. They swayed to the music, her cigarette burning on his left shoulder, drink balancing on his right. He slid his hands over her hips, pulling her skirt up. The others grew sleazier by the second, if that were possible. She looked back, saw Clive unzip. “Let’s talk money,” she suggested, as her panties were fingered aside.
* * * *
Facil downed the last of his coffee and looked for the waitress. Maybe she took a smoke break. He eyed his phone, no messages. 10:17pm. Five hours down, probably five or more to go, if recent nights were any indication. He closed his eyes and the moment was suddenly shattered by a gruff yell.
“Everybody on the floor! Get the fuck down now!” He spun on his stool and was met by the twin barrels of a sawed-off shotgun in his face. “Down, motherfucker!” exclaimed a ski-masked thug. His double covered the entrance behind him, handgun waving, inadvertently stacked with his partner.
Facil couldn’t blame them for being amateurs—they likely had King Kong-sized monkeys on their backs and weren’t counting on resistance. He feigned compliance and lowered to one knee, then smacked the barrels away. The shotgun fired, blasting a hole in the counter that revealed the waitress cowering on the floor. She must’ve seen them coming at the last second and ducked. Screams peppered the room. Another bang, as a slug hit the thug’s chest and lifted him off his feet. Facil tipped his gun an inch to the right and fired twice more, dropping the doorman. Silence. He saw the patrons’ shell-shocked faces and stood up. Both thugs lay dead. He wondered about a refill.
* * * *
The fireplace raged, logs popping like firecrackers, embers dancing like fireflies, as Robert drew his belt tight around Scarla’s neck. He studied the various bite and claw scars on her back, smirking. “You like it rough, huh?”
She tensed as he entered her from behind, her fingers digging into the expensive rug. The others circled her—Clive in nothing but black socks, cigar jutting from his pursed lips, furiously stroking himself, another guy in socks and a button-down, the others in nothing but Rolexes. The thought occurred to her that she was outside the line of duty, but it didn’t matter. She was turned-on. Unacknowledged rape fantasy? She didn’t know and had no time to ponder. Robert thrusted her violently and Clive clapped like a seal, drooling all over his cigar and ready, she presumed by the condom he’d rolled onto his erection, to go next. That sounded as exciting as salt in an open wound, but she’d committed and was theirs for the night, like it or not. Robert smacked her ass harder and harder, leaving deep red handprints. Her face sank to the rug, hair plastered to her cheek, messy strands fluttering with each exhale. She took it like a trooper. The belt went slack. She lifted her head and turned, coming face-to-face with Clive. He held his cigar in one fist, took up the belt with the other.
“Good doggy,” he offered, and spit in her face. She wiped her eyes as he mounted her, humping mercilessly. Two knees hit the floor in front of her, hands pulling her hair back. “Batter on deck!” someone shouted. Laughter. She closed her eyes, opened her mouth.
* * * *
Silently-flashing red and blue lights. Traffic slowed to a crawl. Fucking ambulance chasers. It was a scene Facil knew well, and it was every bit the pain in the ass that it was from day one, but he was stuck in red tape. Two dozen eyewitnesses and video surveillance saw to it that he wasn’t going anywhere, and since it was unrelated to the operation, it was ok to stick around. He leaned against the building, checked his phone. Still nothing. Behind him, they chalk-outlined the thug’s body by the door. Patrons sat around the room, unable to leave.
The waitress emerged, coffee cup in hand. “Here’s your refill,” she meekly offered.
He took it. “Thanks. You okay?”
“Yeah.” She had a lousy poker face. He watched her walk back inside. A flatscreen on the wall caught his eye. Jaws was on cable. How fitting. Enter homicide detective Dom Turkovich, another twenty-five year veteran of the beat. Facil and Turkovich had been tight, until a secret internal affairs investigation—and a booze-soaked conversation about Turk’s tactics in a bar one night—drove a wedge between them that they’d never fully resolve.
Turkovich strolled to the door, eyed Facil. “Evening, LeTour.”
“You oughta be in bed, Dom.”
“Tell me about it. Prick.” He looked inside, saw the bodies. “Target practice?”
Facil shrugged, took a sip. Turkovich eyed the cup.
“Kinda late for coffee, isn’t it?”
“It’s noon, my time.”
“Good brew?”
“Very.”
He nodded. “Don’t run off. We’ll talk in a minute.”
Facil watched him step over the outlined thug and ask the waitress to pour him a cup. Turkovich always was a piece of work.
* * * *
Scarla stood in front of the bathroom mirror, dragging on a cigarette, staring at herself—nude, sweat-soaked, mascara-streaked cheeks, welts on her back and ass, belt buckle imprint on her throat. She could hear their laughter from down the hall, on the other side of the closed door. She took a deep breath and tried to shake off the feelings that were coursing through her like … a drug. She reached into her purse, found the pill bottle. She needed another one, she figured, to get her head straight. She was having difficulty spotting the signs, couldn’t feel the impending doom that preceded a transformation. But she’d felt it in the Lexus and was sure, at the very least, the driver wasn’t what he appeared. Where did he go? She popped a tiny white pill, swallowed. The department developed it for her, after testing it for months on the man she loved. Or, more accurately, on prostitutes they fed to the man she loved. Something else the news media didn’t know about. She felt the effect rise up the back of her neck and pop in her brain like soft fireworks, sharpening the senses, tightening the reflexes. She was suddenly overcome by deja vu.
4
* * *
The room was all white, lit by glaring fluorescence with no obvious fixtures. The blasting light erased any visible borders, nor was there a door to be seen, creating a feeling of infinite space. It would almost be hard to tell which way was up, if it weren’t for the naked man strapped to a table by his wrists, ankles, and neck. Gravity didn’t lie. He was Landon Caulner, and he’d seen better days. Forty-ish and fit, he was unshaven and obviously drained of spirit. He lay in silence, eyes closed. A seam suddenly cracked in the middle of the wall, opening wider and wider until finally becoming a yawning doorway. Scarla entered. She was somber in a form-fitting white jumpsuit that made her look like a floating head against the background. The door closed behind her. Lannie raised his head as far as the neck strap allowed. She watched him with sad eyes. A man’s voice piped through an earpiece hidden by her hair.
Approach the table.
She moved to the table, struggling to maintain her composure.“Scarla,” Landon rasped. “I’m thirsty. Tell them to bring water. Please.” She rolled her eyes—not at him, but at their indifference to his suffering.
“Can we get some fucking water?” she called. After a moment, the door opened. A masked officer set a clear pitcher on the floor, closed the door fast. She picked it up, held it to Landon’s cracked lips. He gulped greedily as she watched, conflicted in ways she never knew possible. He finished and laid his head back, letting his cells soak back to life. The voice came through her earpiece again.
Disrobe.
>
She cringed, reaching to her neck and slowly unzipping the suit. Landon watched her. “What’re you doing?” She let the suit fall and stood over him, nude.“Scarla.” She said nothing.
Arouse the subject.
She flinched, climbing onto the table to straddle him. The subject, they called him. It was the first time the thought entered her mind that she wanted them dead—all the motherfuckers—and it wouldn’t be the last. She reached down and began stroking Landon, deciding to do the job and get the hell out. He looked away, not wanting it to happen. But it was out of his control, and he knew it. They all knew. It had come to this. Two months strapped in a bright room, slaughtering and cannibalizing hookers who’d been “released” from custody. He was nothing but a lab rat and they’d begun using the woman he loved, putting her in danger for their research. For the endless battery of tests that only occurs when the powersthat-be have no clue what’s going on. Landon didn’t know why it had happened to him anymore than they did, probably never would. Or maybe it would come to him as he lay scattered around a lab in pieces. The last shred of consciousness of a twitching brain stem strapped to a cold hard table under bright white light. Well, if they wanted it, he’d give it to them. He knew Scarla would be alright, she’d survived him before. It was time to leave them something to remember.
Initiate intercourse.
She guided him inside her, hands pressed against his heaving chest. He looked at her with a softness she hadn’t seen in a long time, like the man she’d married. She closed her eyes, deciding to feel him for as long as she could, and if he turned … she’d deal with it when it happened.