Sins of the Flash

by David Niall Wilson

  He shot off into her, trembling, drained away and all thought went blank. He saw red, then nothing, and then the room shimmered back into focus.

  Christian pulled back and stared down at her, almost expecting her to move. His pants were in a heap at his feet, and he picked them up, pulling them back on and reaching for his shirt.

  The smooth, starched feel of the shirt was jarring against the sensual backdrop of the moment's experience. He felt uplifted, as though he'd reached a plateau of pleasure that had once been only a dream. He buttoned his shirt carefully, turned to the mirror and fixed his hair.

  When he was convinced that everything was right, that he looked as good as possible, under the circumstances, he went to his camera bag and continued his setup, moving as if in a daze.

  His concentration was incredible. He found that the makeup flowed onto her features, that the decisions he'd faced less than an hour earlier of shading and hue were gone and all but forgotten. He knew instinctively which was the perfect mix, which would bring out the masterpiece beneath her skin.

  It was the lack of distraction. He had all his concentration to spare for the moment's task. She wasn't asking for his attention, wasn't moving annoyingly or giggling inanely. She wasn't at all, in fact, would not be until his work was finished.

  He wove a yellow, silken scarf about her, twining it like a serpent, and let it fall between her breasts. He used golden mascara, as well. She was a golden woman now, like an ornament. His ornament.

  He pulled her hair back, braided it behind her ears so that none of the perfection of the lines of her face would be lost or wasted. She could have been bald and heightened the effect; such was the beauty he saw, the image his mind had created.

  For a long instant he considered shaving her head and acting on the impulse, but in the end he cast it aside. He could work with the hair and it would be perfect. He began the shooting from very close-up. No flesh in these shots, just her face. He arranged and rearranged her, her eyes, her tongue, and the angle of her pout. Everything was his to change, modify and improve.

  Then he moved back, shooting from the side, from directly at her feet, not missing an inch of her, molding every combination of limbs that his imagination could yield up. He felt detached and clinical. The act of spilling his seed into her had emptied his mind, as if she'd taken his spirit into her and he was working with himself, shaping on the outside and complying from within.

  It was a partnership with his mind, a blending of images, the mental and the physical. He felt uplifted and transcendent. The room didn't exist. The police didn't exist. Even Gates was a faded, tarnished image. The instant was everything.

  Christian shot every available inch of film in the camera, and still he stared at her, still his mind whirled with possibilities. He knew it was getting late, knew that he should be gone, but the final pose he'd put her in, leaning forward with her legs crossed and her arms propping her head to stare at him – soft gold makeup surreal and hazy in the dimmer light he'd arranged, was too much for him. He wanted her again.

  Veronica had been beautiful. In death, she had become sublime. Neither of those Veronicas could hold a candle to the cold, arrogant flame of this beauty he had created from the ashes, this phoenix goddess.

  This time her lips were enough, and he did not hold out for long. He moved slowly, then more quickly, working himself to a frenzy, seeing the lipstick staining his skin, feeling the soft length of her hair where he gripped it, holding her in her pose, not wanting to disturb any more of the image than was necessary.

  When he was done, he left her, semen dripping down her silent, still features unnoticed and unimportant to her wherever her soul had gone. He zipped his pants, grabbed his bags and his jacket, and slipped quietly from the room. It was nearly morning. The sun was rising outside, and he needed to get away fast.

  He found the back way open, just as Gates had promised him, the servant’s entrance, and he slipped out onto the street, his tie loose and his suit-coat draped leisurely over his arm. He felt free and powerful. He heard the sirens in the background again, but he knew they were not for him. Not now, not ever. They did not send him into fits of fear. He actually smiled.

  He found the Dart right where he'd left it and tossed his bags and jacket inside quickly. The desire to see the photos, to finish the creation, was becoming intense, overpowering. His mind was focusing again, and he had a hard time concentrating on the road. Even the thought of people seeing him in the dilapidated old Dodge didn't change things.

  On the corner of Broadway and fifteenth, he nearly plowed into the side of a city bus, drawing a round of curses and a finger from the irate driver. It shocked him, but only for a second. Christian slipped around the bus and down the street, making it as quickly and safely to his apartment as possible.

  He tossed the jacket on a chair and took his camera bag to the darkroom, removing the film as he went. His armpits were coated in sweat, and his hair was matted to his forehead, his breathing was growing shallow. This was the moment. The creation would be final in a few short seconds. He would hold his future in his hands, his bid for immortality.

  As he reached for the door to the darkroom, though, the phone rang, clamoring for attention and jangling through his nerves. He dropped the bag, startled, and turned all the way around to stare at it. It rang again, and again, and still he stared. Nobody but Gates had ever called him, and certainly not at such an inappropriate time.

  He turned to the dark room, looking into the doorway longingly, then sighed and rushed to the phone. He lifted it quickly. Nobody had his number, it had to be important.

  "Hello?" the voice was feminine, uncertain, but familiar.

  "Hello," he breathed, trying to control his screaming emotions. "Who is this?"

  "Mr. Greve? Oh, I'm so glad I caught you. This is Madeline, you know, from Mr. Gates' office? I was wondering if we might get together and . . . talk. I want to get a surprise together for Hi, some photos. I was wondering . . ."

  His head was swimming now. He held the phone away from his mouth and breathed deeply several times, closing his eyes hard and pushing the images that flooded in away. Madeline – Veronica – Madeline . . .

  "I . . . I can't right now," he said finally, finding his breath. "Let me call you . . . after lunch?"

  She hesitated, then he felt the tension slip away from her voice, and she said, "That would be fine. I'll be at this number, though, not at the office. I don't want Hi to find out about this."

  Believe me, Christian told her silently, concentrating on writing down the number she gave him, he won't hear it from me. When he had it, he gasped a quick farewell and turned back to the dark room, almost running.

  Christian closed the door and the red light flickered around him, closing him in. In the semi-darkness, he worked, feverishly, and the day wore on about him. It was a day for fate. Somehow, he could feel it. It was his day, and once he was done with the prints, he'd top it off right.

  As the last art and testament of Veronica appeared before his watchful eyes, images of Madeline were already insinuating themselves, already rearranging and flitting about seductively. Already his.

  THIRTEEN

  Hiram was shaking uncontrollably by the time he reached his apartment. It wasn't a familiar sensation, and it wasn't one he intended to experience for long. He had to check and make sure everything was okay.

  Madeline hadn't come to work. He'd been out all morning running errands, having an espresso and a bagel at the deli, lunch with two men who were looking to set up escorts for a large business meeting. It had been a busy day.

  When he'd arrived at the office, however, there had been a message, the light still blinking on the answering machine, saying that Maddy wasn't feeling well. She hadn't mentioned being sick that morning, but she'd hardly been awake enough to wave at him as he left.

  The message said that she might be in later, but not to count on it. She'd also said that she loved him.

  None of this was
enough to make Hiram nervous. Maddy had stayed home from work before, lots of times, and he'd never thought anything of it. Everyone got sick. Even he'd missed days in the past, though few and far between.

  Maddy could take all the time off she wanted, in fact. There were always plenty of girls around he could call to sit in for an evening or two. It was no big deal. In the past he'd even enjoyed such evenings, a chance to be alone with one of the other girls, or with a new girl, to lock himself into his office, turn on the answering machine and enjoy the fruits of his labor.

  This time, though, there was more to it. He didn't know exactly what, or how he knew, but things were stacking up very, very wrong, and he planned to put an end to the fear that was eating away at his mind and ruining his concentration. He needed to put his own fear to rest.

  Fuck business, fuck everyone. He was going to knock on the door, like he was a visitor, or a salesman, and she was going to answer it, despite the fact that her Toyota was not out front, and she was going to be fine. A bit under the weather, perhaps, not at her top health, but for all that, fine.

  There were reasons the car might be gone. Hell, he wouldn't even be upset if it were stolen. Not if she was home. Not if she was okay, standing there cute as hell in her over-sized nightie and grinning at him.

  Hiram gathered his wits and rapped on the door. He could have just gone in, but somehow it was important that she come to the door. She did not. He put his ear to the door, but heard nothing. No answer. No one moved inside, no banging or shuffling, no sleepy steps.

  He knocked again, louder this time, bruising the heel of his hand on the hard wood surface. Still he heard nothing. Moving on wobbly knees and clutching at a stomach suddenly gone to acid, he fumbled the key from his pocket and inserted it in the lock, twisted it, pushed, and stumbled inside.

  The lights were off. There were shoes by the door, but his memory told him there were not enough shoes. When Maddy had moved in, his closet hadn't been able to hold her clothes, not even the shoes. All the ones she used most lined the hall like silent sentinels.

  There was a gap, near the door on the left.

  Her purse was not on the phone table where she normally left it. He'd admonished her for this, because despite the good security system and the heavy locks, it made no sense to leave your money just inside the door for thieves to find. Either she'd listened to him finally, or she was gone. Damn!

  Hiram lurched forward, calling her name and slammed from room to room madly, looking in every corner, every shadow. His voice echoed back at him hollowly. His efforts found him nothing. She was not there, gone.

  He wouldn't have worried about any of it if not for the rest of the morning's events. He hadn't rushed out of his office the moment he heard the message, he'd made some calls, done a little business, then a little checking around.

  Christian Greve had not answered his phone, either. Christian was never gone. He went out at night, if he was working, but during the day, when people were roaming the streets and the city was alive and fresh, he slept. This had been one invariable fact since they'd begun their association. Christian Greve did not fit in with normal society, it was just a fact.

  Hiram hoped against hope that it was his own fault. He hoped that his prodding and pushing, talking Greve into buying nicer clothes, sending him back to Sid's, had all made an impression. He'd been trying, in his own way, to draw the man out, to make him more civilized and easier to be around and to work with. Maybe Greve had just gone out for coffee.

  His heart told him it wasn't so. Everything was changing, the rules were taking off on tangents of their own, ignoring his directions. He'd known Greve was getting cockier, more confident, but he hadn't believed it would extend so far so fast.

  Now the man was gone, and so was Maddy, and the pain that was building in Hiram's chest pushed outward with unbelievable pressure to hinder his breathing. Surely Greve wasn't that insane. Surely the man knew how much he needed Hiram's assistance, how dead he would be if he crossed him. Hiram had gone to such pains to make that clear.

  He staggered to the kitchen, slumped into a chair and sat there, breathing hard. He had to get a grip, had to go after them, to find them. He was very aware of what would happen if he did not, and if his fears were correct. If Christian had Maddy, with or without her approval, he would do what he always did.

  Hiram was beginning to know Greve all too well, to know how he thought and how he would act. He also knew the photos and the allure they held. Possibly, women would feel that attraction as well. Possibly they would want to emulate such independent beauty, such erotic appeal. And Maddy had wanted to pose. It was too much.

  He half rose, half fell from his chair, staggered to the refrigerator and grabbed the first cold liquid that came into his reach. It was milk. He cast the carton aside, not even considering it, and it smashed against the kitchen wall. As the liquid sloshed onto the floor and dripped down the wall, staining the plaster, he pulled free a can of beer, and a second. He gripped them tightly and slammed the door and popped the first top.

  Hiram let the liquid pour down his throat, flowing coldly over his tongue, down to the raging fire that was his gut. He had to pull together – for Maddy. He hadn't done anything for anyone else but himself in so long that the entire concept of what gripped him was alien, impossible to grasp.

  He didn't know what kind of hold she'd gotten on him, or what kind of hold he'd willingly given her, but he knew that he couldn't lose what he'd found so soon, not this way. It was his fault, and there was no way he was going to let that stand. No way was he letting that weight settle onto his shoulders.

  The second beer followed the first, sloshing sloppily over the edges of his mouth and onto his shirt. He paid no attention to the spills, but gulped until every drop was gone. He was only aware of it on a very dim, very insignificant level of his mind.

  The alcohol helped calm him, and he managed to get upright on shaky legs. The phone. There was still the chance that he was wrong, that he could end the whole thing before the nightmare ever had the chance to become a reality.

  He dialed Greve's number again, letting it ring and ring. There was no answer. Cursing, he tried the office. All he got was the grating electronic beep and Maddy's cheerful voice – a Maddy he knew was not there and might never be there again if he didn't find her.

  It was strange. The disembodied, mechanical voice on the answering machine brought an image of Maddy at work, but it was just one image among many. Now there was the Maddy that shared his home. There were others, as well. Damn Greve for pointing it out.

  Hiram headed for the street, slammed the penthouse door behind him and barreled down the hall to the elevator. He fumed at its slowness, but he didn't trust his rubbery, traitorous legs on the stairs. He'd be no good to Maddy at all if he didn't calm down, or if he didn't make it out of the building at all.

  The office was the logical point of operation. He would go back, lock the outer door, and get to the phone and to his Rolodex. He would make calls, pull in favors, and get people on the streets. He would find that sadistic, perverted nut, and he would find Maddy, and he would get her the fuck out of there.

  He'd fought many a battle from that chair, from behind that desk. He knew his limitations, and he knew his strengths. If there was any hope at all of finding Maddy or Greve, or both and ending the whole ordeal, it was in that room. If he could get back into his element, re-establish some control, everything would work out. It had to.

  It wasn't the finest plan in the world, and Hiram knew it, but it was something. It was not sitting around with his thumb up his ass. He only prayed that he was wrong, that she was out shopping for some headache medicine, or some Midol, and that she would call him soon, tell him some maniac had broken into his penthouse and ask if she should call the police.

  He almost smiled at the image, picturing her flabbergasted face as she stared at the smashed milk carton. It was an odd thing to do, after all, especially if you only planned on stealing two ca
ns of beer.

  When he pulled into the parking lot and headed for the door to his office, Hiram didn't check to be certain he was alone. He had no reason to suspect otherwise. It was his building, his office, and his world.

  He'd parked there and worked there for so many years that it was second nature. Nobody would bother him, nobody had any reason to. It was he that was going to be doing the bothering, maybe more than that. It all depended on finding Greve, and finding Maddy.

  * * *

  Tommy and Mac watched Gates arrive, and they exchanged glances. They stayed put, kept the lights and engine off, and watched as the big man unlocked his door, headed inside, and closed the door. The upstairs lights came on a few moments later, silhouetting the man against the shades of the office windows, but still Tommy hesitated. He had a feeling, one of those hunches he was so proud of.

  The guy wasn't going anywhere without coming back out to that parking lot in plain sight of them, and they didn't have a warrant. The guy was obviously up to something; maybe he'd give them a clue, something more than what they already had to go on.

  Mac glanced at him, gesturing at the building across the street with an impatient nod, but Tommy shook his head. "Give him a minute to hang himself, Mac. I've got a feeling on this. If he doesn't come back out in the next couple of minutes, we'll go in after him."

  Despite his own words, Tommy was unable to sit still. He pulled the cruiser out into the street, headed around the block and entered Gate's parking lot from the behind. He dimmed his lights again, shut off the engine, and the car glided to a halt beneath the window, out of sight.

  They sat in silence for a few moments more, waiting, watching for any sign they'd been seen, but there was nothing. It was all either of them could take. Hunch or no hunch, Tommy had to get moving, to get in that man's face and get some answers and get back out again before it was too late. He didn't know why the feeling of urgency was so strong, but it was. Somehow he knew their time was limited.