Dominion

by Greg F. Gifune

  The light returned, blinking in intervals closer and closer together until it created a strobe effect. As it flickered, partially illuminating the figure on the screen, he saw the woman moving closer with each burst of light.

  And just when she was a step or two away from being close enough for him to identify her entire face, another series of images appeared in montage. A rapid-fire slideshow, a series of six or seven snapshots flashed in succession then repeated again and again on an endless loop.

  From some primal place deep within him, a rush of horror erupted, and Daniel found himself on his feet, the chair falling back to the floor as his towel fell free, the pictures now shuffling by faster and faster at impossible speeds. Though now a barely perceptible blur, he’d seen them. He’d seen them and recognized them, and while his immediate impulse was to rip the computer from the wall and stop this, he couldn’t seem to move. Gasping for air like a fish out of water, he watched the pictures of Lindsay fly by. Pictures they’d taken a few years ago. Private pictures they’d never shared with anyone and no one knew existed but them.

  Another crackle surged through the speakers, this time at an excruciatingly loud volume. Breaking free of his paralysis, Daniel staggered back and brought his hands to his ears as the monitor flashed then went black and the computer shut down with a violent surge.

  Daniel could not be sure how long he stood in shock before the dark computer, but eventually he retrieved the towel from the floor, wrapped it around his waist and felt himself leave the room. His legs moved with an awkward, jerky stride, as if he’d become unfamiliar with their use, and he was suddenly quite cold and wracked with violent shivers. His mind fought frantically to rationalize what he had just witnessed, but the terror refused to release him, reminding him that he was in the midst of something very real and very evil, something so powerful and knowing, that it was beyond his ability to even comprehend it.

  “It’s not her,” he muttered. “It’s not—not her.”

  It’s not me. Tell him it’s not me.

  My God, he thought, could she have somehow known this would happen after her death?

  He reached the bedroom and rifled through a small desk there. Lindsay had often sat at it while paying bills or writing letters, but Daniel also knew she had tucked the photographs away in its middle drawer a few years earlier. She’d put them in an envelope then slipped it into a notebook beneath some stationery.

  He located the notebook relatively quickly, but the photographs were no longer in it. After flipping through it front to back he began tearing pages free then tossed the notebook aside in favor of pulling the drawer out of the desk entirely. As he emptied it onto the bed, a business-sized envelope fell free from the rest of the items.

  Daniel sat on the edge of the bed, opened the envelope and looked through the photographs. To the best of his recollection they were all there, but each and every one had been displayed on the computer screen just moments before. He shuffled through them again, photographs of her topless, totally nude, even a few sexually explicit ones. He tried to control himself as he looked at parts of her that had remained in memory since her death. Her breasts, the nipples erect and beautiful, her ass, pubic hair, legs, feet, hands, those eyes, that amazing smile, it all came back to him in a rush, his emotions a conflicted jumble. In a way, these pictures made her alive to him again, sexual and amorous and more than a frozen smile, a distant conceptual vision of the past he’d fought so desperately to hang onto. This was intimacy, their intimacy. Only it wasn’t theirs anymore. Now it also belonged to someone else.

  He remembered when they’d taken the photographs. It had been for fun, something silly and playful they’d done on the spur of the moment one night with their digital camera. They’d printed them out but not saved them to a disk or on the camera itself, and Daniel hadn’t even seen them in more than a year. Now, looking at them again—at her again—he saw how beautiful she was, so sexy and in love and happy she’d been. For the first time in months he could remember how she felt and tasted and smelled. Truly remembered it. With grief battling the fear in him, he clutched the stack of photos to his chest. “Lindsay,” he said, choking on her name, “I’m losing my fucking mind.” He thought about what had happened while crossing the Boston Commons earlier in the day and tried to concentrate, hopeful that he might be able to feel her with him again, her lips against his, her breath on his face. “Tell me what’s happening. Please tell me what’s happening.”

  No answers came.

  Daniel returned the pictures to the envelope then stuffed the entire thing into one of his bureau drawers beneath a pile of folded sweaters. Bracing himself for whatever else was waiting for him there, he made the slow walk back to the computer room, arms at his sides and hands clenched into fists to hold them steady.

  The computer was still off, the monitor dark. Approaching it cautiously, he hit the power button on the tower. Both components were dead.

  Sometimes the damn thing isn’t even on, his mother whispered to him.

  A violent tug pulled both power cords from their sockets.

  Retreating until he felt the wall against his back, Daniel slid to the floor and into a sitting position, never taking his eyes from the computer and determined to stay awake all night if need be.

  Negotiating the shadowy path between reason and lunacy, he waited, unaware that he had fallen asleep until hours later, when he was awakened by the persistent ringing of a telephone.

  SEVENTEEN

  “I’m getting closer, Daniel.”

  He recognized the voice. “Good, I’m waiting on you, asshole.”

  “I’m going to show you things you can’t even begin to imagine.”

  “You can start by telling me who you are.”

  “Agony.” The connection crackled. “Your agony.”

  Daniel shrugged off a chill. “How about a name?”

  “I have many names.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I used to be called Steven.”

  Perspiration formed on his palm. He tightened his grip on the phone. “And now?”

  “Russell.”

  “How did you know Lindsay, Russell? Did you two meet online?”

  “Do you have any idea the doors you’ve opened?”

  “No, I don’t. Why don’t you stop talking out of your ass and tell me?”

  “You’re an insignificant little piece of shit,” the man growled.

  “Then why are you doing this? Tell me what’s happening. What do you want?”

  “Lindsay.”

  “Lindsay’s dead.”

  “She’s alive. More than you know.”

  Daniel could hear the man’s shallow breath through the phone. “My wife is dead.”

  “Your wife may be dead,” he whispered, “but Lindsay is alive.”

  A loud click was followed by more crackling on the line. Then dead air.

  Daniel stabbed the disconnect button with his thumb then hit call return. After a moment the number scrolled across the display screen. He knew the number, like the others before it, would be assigned to a payphone, but this time he recognized the area code as belonging to New Jersey.

  I’m getting closer, Daniel.

  His anger rising, Daniel walked through the house doggedly, going through the motions of brushing his teeth, washing his face and getting dressed. Once finished he returned to the computer room and carried the tower, PDA and Lindsay’s laptop outside to the trunk of his car.

  As he slammed closed the trunk he looked around a moment. It was a clear and sunny morning, but already colder than the day before. He welcomed the frigid temperature. It woke him up, focused his mind.

  As he turned to go back inside, something glinting off a nearby windshield caught his attention. Through a swirl of breath he saw it again, the sun reflecting off the windshield of an SUV parked near the corner. Normally, he would’ve dismissed it, but when he looked closer, he realized someone was sitting behind the wheel of the parked vehicle
, an object in their hands. That object had caught the sun and caused the glint.

  And that object appeared to be binoculars.

  The driver quickly lowered the object and started the engine.

  Daniel started toward the vehicle, struggling to see the driver, but all he could make out was a silhouette. “Hey!” he shouted, breaking into a run. “Hey, wait a minute!”

  The SUV lurched forward, nearly hitting the car parked in front of it, then shot backward out into the street and backed the rest of the way to the corner. Daniel reached the corner just as it sped off. He continued after it, running down the middle of the street and calling out, but the driver turned onto Mass. Avenue, increased speed and bolted away toward Cambridge. Daniel ran as far as the next block but realized it was pointless, the SUV was already gone.

  Out of breath, he headed back to the brownstone as he committed the color and make of the SUV to memory and tried to recall as much of the license plate as he could. Dark green Ford Explorer…recent model but not brand new…last three numbers on the tag: 323.

  He turned the corner, made his way toward home and came upon Mrs. Bayer, an elderly woman from two doors down who often took her poodle Jean-Pierre out for morning walks. A squat and rotund woman with white hair tinted faintly blue and a fondness for bright red lipstick, satin pillbox hats with short French netted veils, drab ankle-length coats and orthopedic walking shoes, she often reminded Daniel of an old schoolmarm straight out of Central Casting. He didn’t know her well, but enough to say hello and exchange pleasantries now and then. He also knew she rarely missed a trick in the neighborhood and often saw her peeking from the windows of her brownstone at the slightest noise or disturbance.

  “Good morning, Mr. Cicero,” she said with a smile that revealed dentures a bit large for her mouth. “Awfully brisk, you should have a jacket on, you’ll catch pneumonia.”

  “Mrs. Bayer, did you happen to see an SUV parked near the corner a minute ago?”

  She hesitated as her dog sniffed a particular section of sidewalk. “Yes, I most certainly did. A big horrible green thing. No one owns anything that size on the street. It stood out. I walked right by it but then I realized I’d forgotten my scooper and we had to go back and get it.” She looked down at the dog and gave a gentle tug on the leash. “No poopie-doopies on the sidewalk, Jean-Pierre, you know better than that now, just control yourself.”

  “Did you happen to see who was in it?”

  “A man,” she said. “I’d guess he was near fifty, if not a little over. He looked awfully nervous to me. One never knows today. Even Jean-Pierre didn’t like him, I could tell, and Jean-Pierre loves everyone. At any rate, I’m glad you noticed it too.” She gave a conspiratorial shake of her head. “I don’t like the idea of a stranger sitting in a parked car—or whatever that monstrosity was—early in the morning like that. Very suspicious, if you ask me, but I assumed he was looking at real estate.”

  “Why did you assume that?”

  “He had a little pair of binoculars. You know the type some people use at racetracks? I thought he was using them for a closer look rather than being overt, but he put them away when I got close to him. I couldn’t tell exactly what he was looking at but assumed it was real estate. You’re not selling, I hope.”

  “No,” Daniel said. “But that’s probably all it was, maybe someone else is.”

  “I don’t think he thought I’d seen him using the binoculars, but I did. My eyes still work perfectly,” she said through a sly smile. “Trust me.”

  Daniel crouched down, gave Jean-Pierre a quick pat on the head and feigned nonchalance. “Oh, I do, Mrs. Bayer, I do.”

  “Should I phone the police just to be safe?”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary.” He smiled. “But let’s keep an eye out for him, OK?”

  “I most certainly will,” she said imperiously. “Come along, Jean-Pierre, it’s off to the park for your poopie-doopies. Nice to see you again, Mr. Cicero.”

  “You too, Mrs. Bayer.” He walked back to his brownstone, working the possibilities in his mind. Why in God’s name would someone be parked on the street studying his home with binoculars? Who would do such a thing? Or could it be entirely unrelated to everything else happening? Could it have just been someone casing the neighborhood?

  Daniel was already under enough pressure without this latest development, and knew he was dangerously close to his breaking point. The less he understood things the more vigilant he needed to remain, however, otherwise he might shut down and crumble under the stress. Were that to happen there might be no turning back, no recovery, and he couldn’t allow that.

  Once back inside, he heard his cell phone emitting a tone that indicated a voice mail had arrived in his absence. He dialed into his mailbox and hit the appropriate keys to retrieve and listen to the message.

  “Hi, it’s Elliot. Listen, I spoke with my guy about that thing we discussed yesterday. I’m off today, so give me a call back at home.”

  Daniel dialed Elliot’s home number. It was answered on the first ring. “Elliot, it’s Danny, sorry I missed you, I couldn’t get to the phone in time.”

  “OK, I talked to Jeff and he was able to contact Bedbug. Apparently he no longer lives in Revere. Jeff says he moved over near Chinatown a few months ago.”

  “Will he see me?”

  “Yes, looks good. I have a cell number for him. When you call just give him your name. He’s expecting your call. Here’s the number, got a pen handy?”

  Daniel hurried into the kitchen, grabbed a pen and poised it over the small pad next to the phone. “All set.”

  Elliot recited the number then had Daniel read it back to him. “I hope he can help you with whatever the problem is.”

  “Thanks Elliot, I really appreciate it. And tell Jeff thanks too.”

  “Will do. Good luck.”

  Daniel hung up, and like a man in a trance, stared at the scrap of paper. Everything continued to weigh on him, piling up and crushing him down. A tremor rattled his shoulders, rocketed down his forearms and escaped through his fingertips. He punched in the number and listened as it connected. It rang several times before the call was finally answered.

  “Go for the Bug.”

  Taken a bit off guard, Daniel cleared his throat nervously before responding. “Uh, yeah, this is Dan. Jeff said you’d be expecting my call.”

  “You need me to dig through some hard drives, yeah?”

  The man’s voice had an almost comical edge to it. He sounded like a stoned teenager. “Yeah, I—”

  “How many pieces?”

  “Three. A desktop, a laptop and a PDA.”

  “On the desktop just bring the tower, no monitor, printer, any of that.” The scratch and hiss of a match flaring sounded. “How fast do you need to know what’s on them?”

  “Soon as possible.”

  An exaggerated inhale was followed by a slow exhale. “I work strictly in cash.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “Hot Karl’s in one half hour. Meet me out front.”

  “Hot Karl’s?”

  “Adult bookstore on Washington Street over in the old zone. If you’re late, I split, the deal’s off and you don’t call me again, comprende?”

  “I understand,” Daniel said.

  But Bedbug had already hung up.

  EIGHTEEN

  All that remained of the once-infamous Combat Zone was a few strip clubs and a handful of adult book and video stores. First formed in the 1960s after the demolition of the previous red-light district at Scollay Square, The Combat Zone, a vast adult entertainment district in Boston that had at one time ranged from Washington Street to Stuart Street and up into Park Square, thrived uninterrupted in decadent bliss until the 1980s. By the mid-80s, residents and businesses had put such pressure on the political establishment to clean up the “Zone” that it led to massive police crackdowns, significant urban renewal ventures and eventual interest from developers eager to exploit the potentiall
y enormous property values in the area. As numerous development deals came to pass, a real estate boon that continued through present day resulted in hotels like The Four Seasons and the Ritz Carlton, a Loews Cinema complex, some state and university buildings, a renovated Boston Opera House and luxury condominiums replacing the seedy old strip clubs, sex shops, adult theaters and peep shows. LaGrange Street, which runs between Washington and Tremont Streets, had once been lined with adult clubs, attractions and a glut of prostitutes walking the street and working the doorways and corners. One of the few strip clubs that survived was still headquartered there, but the street was nothing like it had been years before, and though prostitution and narcotics could still be found in parts of nearby Chinatown, The Theater District and even in some parts of Park Square, for all intent and purposes, the “Combat Zone,” first dubbed such in the 1960s in a series of articles published in the Boston Record-American, was no more.

  Daniel turned onto Washington Street and cruised along the small gritty section of the block that still offered a couple adult video and bookstores. He found Hot Karl’s Book and Video Depot on a desolate section of the street between a small liquor store and a vacant, rundown building that had once housed an adult nightclub. The street was dirty, the gutters littered with debris. But for a few stragglers and a homeless man sitting on the curb rummaging through a tattered plastic garbage bag, the block was quiet. He pulled over and parked directly in front of the store.

  An older man in an expensive suit and overcoat emerged from Hot Karl’s. Head down, he made a swift escape around the corner and out of the neighborhood, a paper bag tucked under one arm.

  Daniel shut the engine off, got out of the car and leaned against the side panel, arms folded over his chest. As if on cue, a man stepped into view at the mouth of a narrow alley between Hot Karl’s and the liquor store.

  Thin to the point of looking emaciated, he was no more than five-foot-six or seven and clad in a pair of black jeans, scuffed black boots and a dark pea coat buttoned closed, collar flipped up. Tied around his head and secured in the back was a multicolored scarf, the tails of the tied off ends hanging well below his shoulders. His intense dark eyes flashed with madness or brilliance, maybe both. Daniel couldn’t decide if he looked more like a burned out rock star or an extra from a B-movie about pirates and gypsies.