by Whitley Gray
Need was a beast with red eyes and scalpel-sharp claws that could plunge inside and excise a human heart.
Beetle sketched such a creature. It had the mythical look of something from Dante’s seventh circle of Hell—violence personified.
Exhaling, he dropped the pencil and closed his eyes. He imagined morphing into that fiend and thrusting daggerlike claws through the sternum, the heart beating in his grasp.
Taking the disabled man with emphysema hadn’t been satisfying. Under the influence of alcohol, the old geezer had treated death as a long overdue and welcome friend. He’d gone out with a whimper, not a scream. Beetle needed fear, the kind that made a victim wide-eyed and tearful, made the pulse in the neck flutter in terror, and made her—or him—beg for a stay of execution.
Dr. Littman had the heart of a hunter—a lion, like that golden mane of his. He would have the stamina to last through the preparations. He would be the ultimate prize. But first there had to be number four.
It was a dangerous time to take another.
I need it. I crave it.
Because he was a god. A god who fed on blood and sacrifice.
He was worthy. Not like what he heard at lunch with his fucking overcritical harpy of a mother. Every month the same…old…shit.
“Why are you wasting your life in a dead-end job?” Mother Dearest had said over crepes. “When are you going back to school?”
“I’m not going back,” Beetle had said. “I’m fine just as I am.”
“You would have been a gifted surgeon.” She’d shaken her head as she carved off a bite. “There’s no skill required to be a lab tech.”
She always said that. Always. He’d tried her way, subjected himself to the rigors of med school, but it hadn’t worked out. He was a source of chronic disappointment to her.
“A graphic novel company has accepted me to be an illustrator,” Beetle said, trying for positive. “They were very happy with my work.”
“Drawing cartoons.” She sniffed. “At least you could have tried anatomical illustration.”
No, I couldn’t, because I hate it. I hate crepes and cream and tea. I hate you.
Somehow he’d made it through the meal. He gripped the necklace of phalanges curving over his clavicles and around his cervical vertebrae. Smooth, tapered, with tiny tuberosities and hollow shafts. Clean and beautiful and free of polluted flesh. Decay, nature’s way of cleaning the fleeting from the permanent. Lovely bones.
It was her fault if she had a problem with what he’d become—with what he would become.
Beetle’s interest had grown organically. He’d studied at the knee of an exacting anatomist: Mother Dearest, Dearest Mother Lydia. His father had departed for good when Beetle was seven, and Lydia had controlled her only child’s every move. Instead of day care after school, he went to her office at the university.
Corpses were commonplace—bodies donated for the advancement of science. More than two dozen every fall when a new med school class matriculated. Through the expanse of glass in his mother’s office, Beetle could survey the field of bodies in the gross anatomy room. The pervasive stink of formaldehyde and bleach overlay the more subtle stench of decay, working its way into walls and ceilings and clothes.
Beetle had seen bodies at every stage of dissection; he’d memorized the reference skeleton hanging on a pole. By middle school he was better at human anatomy than many of the medical students.
In his first year of medical school, he’d discovered right off the bat that gross anatomy was the only thing he liked. Perfect dissection—fascinating. Biochemistry, embryology, neuroscience—boring. Then one mistake, and suddenly he’d been persona non grata and expelled. Mummy never forgave him.
The series of jobs that followed had left him unsatisfied. In the workaday world, Beetle drew looks. He was used to the furtive glances of unschooled curiosity, the fascination with one so different from themselves. Is it a boy or a girl? It, as if Beetle were a slug.
Superior beings weren’t held to mortal standards. He was simply a bit androgynous. A beautiful, bisexual, continuously changing chameleon, destined for great things. The ability to morph gave him the anonymity he needed for The Work. Because a vocation such as his couldn’t tolerate an audience.
During a stint working at the morgue, Beetle had made a friend, one who didn’t look at him as if he were an anomaly. Like the kids in the cancer ward, Dodo was simple and straightforward. He called Beetle beautiful and made himself available for Beetle’s needs. Dodo could be irritating, but he didn’t make fun of Beetle or throw taunts like “pansy boy” or “tranny.”
Too many looked at Beetle with judging eyes, seeing what they wanted to. They didn’t see what was inside, only caring about appearance and looking down on him. Xav hadn’t looked down; he had recognized the potential in Beetle to accomplish great things.
Beetle might have been a bit sloppy the first time. Not intentionally, of course, but he hadn’t yet perfected his technique.
He belonged to a rarefied brotherhood, the secret conclave of men who understood climax was so much sweeter when combined with domination and death. With blood and bone and desperate cries for mercy.
Once you crossed that line, dared to taste the thrill of the kill, there was no going back. There was only striving to refine the method.
Xav had been done with Perny last fall—done with “that long-haired, hippie, white-bread boy,” he’d said. Xav had wanted proof of death, not soporific newspaper articles about missing girls. Not claims of glory based on a graveyard full of nude sheet-wrapped blondes.
What he wanted was an artiste. Someone with finesse, with a unique slant on the fine art of domination. Someone who could draw blood from live quarry and take pleasure in it. Someone skilled in dissection and preparation of the heart, with the ability to smuggle it into the prison for Xav.
Someone like Beetle. He’d been rewarded for his persistence and skill in locating Hightower.
Beetle had managed one tribute for Xav and three for himself. No one knew who they were looking for yet—not even the great Dr. Littman. And as soon as Littman became his, Beetle would become a god.
But first, it was time for number four. And Beetle had chosen the perfect tribute.
* * * *
Beck woke to insistent pounding on the door.
For a moment he didn’t know where he was. Wait—the bed-and-breakfast. And Zach had left for home hours ago. It was…two fifteen.
The thumping came again. Beck stumbled into jeans and headed toward the entry. What the hell was happening? “Hold on. I’m coming.”
Through the fish-eye he saw an undercover officer: dark tactical clothing, baseball cap, silver badge hanging from a lanyard around the neck. A cold finger stroked Beck’s spine. Not good. He swung open the door.
“Detective Stryker?” The voice was a pleasant alto and sounded vaguely female.
“Yeah.” Beck felt naked standing there without a shirt.
“Dr. Littman’s been taken to the hospital. They sent me to get you.”
No. Beck’s knees wanted give out. He clutched the door frame. “What happ—”
The officer lifted a hand, and a jolt hit Beck in the chest. He jerked as electricity raced through every nerve and locked his muscles and joints. For a moment he teetered, but then gravity won and he keeled over, landing on his reconstructed left shoulder. The impact caused a searing stab down his arm. Electric agony sent spasms through his body, keeping him immobilized. Why had this cop Tasered him? It didn’t make sense. Not a cop. The Follower.
Helpless, Beck lay there as the pretend police officer knelt, pulled out a syringe, and jabbed it into Beck’s arm. The drug stung as it went in.
“Night-night, Beck,” the man whispered.
No-no-no. Goddamn it. Beck tried to yell, to kick, but what his brain commanded was lost on his body. Black came down.
* * * *
Zach was drinking a glass of water at the kitchen sink and watching a pock-
faced silver moon wander across the sky when his phone buzzed. He grinned, expecting a text from Beck. Instead SJ came up on the screen. Maybe the sting was complete. Zach took the call.
“Did you catch him?” he asked.
“No.” SJ’s voice wasn’t quite steady. “Zach, Beck has been taken.”
He went cold all over. “What do you mean, taken?”
“The man who operates the place where Beck was staying heard knocking downstairs. Apparently the room has a private outside entrance—”
“I know that. What about Beck?”
“After the knocking quit, the proprietor looked out an upstairs window and saw a sedan drive away. He described it as a dark-colored Crown Vic—like an unmarked police car. He said the car didn’t have the headlights on, and he didn’t get a plate number. When he got downstairs to see what was happening, he found the door open and Beck missing.”
All the strength drained from Zach’s body. He slid down the wall until he hit the floor. “Any signs of a struggle?”
“None.”
If he could have, Beck would have fought. Drugs, most likely. Or a blow to the head. Something disabling. “How long ago?”
“It happened about two fifteen. The owner called Denver PD, and when they learned who the victim was, they called me.”
Zach checked the clock. Fuck. “It’s three a.m. We’ve lost forty-five minutes.”
“We’ve got an APB on the car, and we’re searching for witnesses.”
“I’ll meet you over there.”
“There’s not much you can do—”
“I’m coming.” The words barely made it past the tightness in his throat. “The Follower’s got him.”
“We don’t know that.”
“I do.”
* * * *
Boxes. Boxes were everywhere, towering walls of cardboard separated by twisting narrow aisles. Beck wove his way through the passages, searching for Zach. From a distance, he could hear people chanting; it sounded like “Zach, Zach, Zach.”
A man wearing a badge stepped in front of Beck, a pretty man who looked like a woman. He said, “Come with me. I know where Zach is.”
Beck backed away. This wasn’t right. “I don’t need your help to find him.”
“Yes, but he needs my help to find you.” The stranger laughed and shoved a wall of cartons. It fell over, revealing Zach sitting at a desk, laughing and talking with Ruskin and Sands. Zach wore a T-shirt that said FBI in bold letters.
Zach caught sight of Beck. “I told you the Follower was close to Darling, but you didn’t want to believe me.”
“I did believe you. I was checking into it.”
“You didn’t. I have to work where people need me.” Zach began to restack boxes, rebuilding the wall. The cartons all bore the FBI logo.
“I do need you. Please. I love you.”
Zach held the final box. “Sometimes love isn’t enough.”
* * * *
Beck woke with a gasp. He lay in sweltering darkness, hands and feet bound with zip ties, head booming in time to his pulse. Beneath his cheek was rough carpet smelling of industrial shampoo and rubber. A car trunk? Not moving, though, and no traffic noise.
The trunk lid lifted, silhouetting his captor. Beck tried to scoot away, but there was no place to go. Wordlessly, the Follower poked a needle in Beck’s arm. A sting, and then rolling darkness.
* * * *
When Zach arrived at the B and B, crime-scene tape blocked off the driveway and entrance to the suite. The door stood open. Crime-scene techs swarmed over the room, bagging and tagging evidence. Police radios crackled with messages. Red-and-blue lights washed over the adjacent homes, drawing out curious, pajama-clad neighbors.
SJ met Zach by the entrance to the room. “We think he parked right by the suite. As soon as Beck opened the door, the abductor disabled him, took him to the vehicle, and drove away.”
“Anything left behind?”
“They’re still looking.” SJ offered a sad smile. “Special investigations is in charge.”
“Why? We know the unsub much better than they do, and Beck is one of ours.”
“Exactly. We can’t be primary, but we can help. Evans is receptive.”
Evans was Lieutenant Lars Evans, the head of Zach’s security detail—the people who had been protecting him when the real target was Beck.
Evans was a tall Nordic blond with blue eyes and an easygoing manner. He strode over, chagrin on his face. “Dr. Littman, SI is in charge, but I’m interested in anything you can contribute.”
SJ said, “I’ll leave you to talk.”
Zach wanted to scream. They needed action, not words. Adult males had a poor chance of survival after kidnapping; the Follower never kept his victims beyond a few hours. Knowing the odds made his heart shrivel up and drop into his stomach. Fear sent his objectivity out the window. No matter how Zach looked at it, he couldn’t treat Beck like any other case. It mattered too much. Beck was everything.
Evans walked Zach to the top of the drive near the carriage house, away from the fray. “Did Beck stay here often?”
“Last night was the first that I know of.”
“And you were…here with him for a while?”
For the first time, Zach felt a bit of heat in his cheeks. “I’d say about three hours. I left for the house around ten. Beck was planning to spend the night here.”
“When did you last talk to him?”
“We exchanged texts at midnight.” Benign see-you-in-the-morning texts. Zach had planned to return at seven for breakfast.
“And there was no indication anything was wrong?” Evans tapped a pen on his notepad.
“No.”
“Why would Stryker open his door?” Evans sounded frustrated. “He knows better.”
“It was the middle of the night.” Zach could picture the scene. “He was probably asleep, and someone woke him by knocking loud enough to wake the owner. I expect a disguise was involved—something disarming. The Follower is very good at that.”
Evans’s fair brows rose. “What in the hell could look disarming at two o’clock in the morning?”
There was only one thing Zach could conceive of. “I think it would have to be a cop. Beck was on guard. Getting awakened suddenly, seeing someone with a badge, and then opening the door—that’s all it would take.”
“You think the Follower…is a cop.”
Zach struggled to keep the emotion out of his voice. “No. I think the Follower dressed as a cop and drove a car that reinforced that. He could have disabled Beck with a hypo or a blow to the head.”
Evans held out a black gun from his duty belt. “Or a Taser?”
“Sure. Then throw him in the trunk and take off.” Zach swallowed. Take off for God knew where.
One of the techs approached and held out an evidence bag. “Found this on the pillow.”
A note. White paper, black marker. A red smear along the edge of the page. Wordlessly Zach took it and read.
Don’t fuck with me, Littman. I have my number four.
How does it feel to know you did this to the
One
You
Love?
* * * *
Something was wrong. The metallic tang of medication lingered on Beck’s tongue. Arms heavy, so heavy, like lifting massive weights. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. Whatever had been used to drug him had left his stomach queasy, and his head felt like it might explode.
What had happened? Too many fragments. He’d opened the door to an undercover officer. The man had Tasered him and shot him up with something that had made him sleep. And then…what?
Then he was here, wherever “here” was. The table he lay on was metallic, hard, and cold. Leather restraints strapped down his wrists. Ankles too. A belt across his chest and one over his thighs. The abductor had left Beck in his boxer briefs and nothing else.
A round light hovered over him, like in an operating room. Near one wall was a tray of shiny surg
ical instruments. Beck went cold. This was bad. Very bad.
* * * *
“His phone must be dead.” Zach hit End after dialing Beck for the umpteenth time. In the formal dining room of the bed-and-breakfast, the host had put out an urn of coffee and pastries for law enforcement. Holding a warm mug of coffee, Zach paced the room while waiting for a look at the crime scene. Evans watched from a chair.
Zach was slowly losing his mind. He’d gotten Sands out of bed and asked him to prevail upon the Supermax warden to get the personnel files for the guards.
“An insomniac neighbor got a partial plate,” Evans said. “Might help.”
“He wouldn’t be that careless.”
“He’ll make a mistake. He’s human.”
“‘Human’ being relative.” It was too damn hard to think like a profiler right now. Ordinarily, he had a pretty cool head, but fear had its fingers around his throat. Being personally involved in a case sucked.
“Your computer guy—”
“Ernie.”
“Ernie is trying to track the car via stoplight cameras to get an idea of where he headed.”
The cameras would only extend so far. To the west were the Rocky Mountains with their concealing foliage and treacherous slopes. Within twenty minutes the Follower could have been up in the foothills, possibly trading vehicles and changing disguises.
Zach had to do something more constructive than sit on his ass conjecturing. “I want to see the room. Now.”
“They’re still collecting evidence—”
“I’m the best one to tell you if something is missing. I’m going inside.”
* * * *
The next time Beck opened his eyes, he wasn’t alone. There was someone in hospital scrubs next to him, arranging the surgical tray.
Beck unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Who are you?”
The man turned. He was lean but well built; his dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Eyes the artificial blue of contact lenses looked from a face that could only be described as pretty. “Don’t I look familiar?”