Sins of the Flash

by David Niall Wilson

  Sid had security cameras posted all around the club, covering every entrance, parking lot, and street that faced the building. The cameras were monitored constantly when the club was open, recording when it was closed. Nothing got by without notice. It helped explain Terri's seemingly endless knowledge of the town's goings on. She could just watch the tapes.

  While she filled Tommy and Mac in on what she'd seen, Sid brought out a short, seedy looking guy named Marty, whispering in the man's ear constantly, as if convincing him of something. Apparently, Sid managed it, because Marty was more than cooperative when he came face to face with Tommy. Tommy listened attentively.

  "Yeah," Marty told them, his eyes shifting about nervously, "I seen him. He was a short guy, right? With a big hooked nose? Girl was a real looker, nicest damned legs . . ."

  "His car," Tommy grated, not in the mood to fool around, "did you see his car?"

  "Oh, yeah, I seen the car all right," Marty assured them. "Old blue Dodge Dart, not many like 'em runnin' around anymore. Seen 'em pull out and take a left on Broadway, drivin' real slow and sneaky like. That car's been here before. Other night I saw him tryin' to hide it out in the lot across the alley, sneaking in like no one would know.

  "Hey," he added, as if the idea had just occurred to him, "did he kill someone or somethin'?"

  Tommy ignored the man, nodded to Sid and grabbed Terri by the arm. "We have to get out and try and track this freak," he told her quickly. "We left word we'd be here, if something happens, can you get word to us?"

  "I can get word to anywhere downtown," she smiled weakly. "You just get this guy, okay?"

  "I plan on it," he told her, turning to the door.

  "Hey," she called after him. He turned back, meeting her eyes. "You take it easy, Cowboy. I still want that real date."

  He grinned once, then turned again and was out the door, Mac on his heels. They were in familiar territory now, working where they worked best. He knew they should have taken the car, but somehow pounding the pavement with his boots helped. There were plenty of cars out. This way he could be found if Terri learned anything.

  They weren't halfway down the block when a black man in a dark sweater eased out of the shadows, hissing at them.

  "What the fuck do you want?" Tommy asked, barely slowing.

  "No way to treat a friend, man," the guy answered, smiling. “Terri, she says to tell you your station called. Some guy, a garbage man, I think, came forward to say he seen that suitcase the girl was in. Dude helped load it into a blue Dodge Dart. Just thought you'd want to know."

  Then the man was gone again, as quickly as he'd appeared, and Mac stared into the shadows after him. This was new to them both, warped even. These were not the citizens they worked to protect, not really, but for once they were working together.

  "Let him go, Mac," Tommy sighed. He hadn't counted on the sideshow theatrics, but the information was good. They had their man all right; all they had to do was find him.

  They'd already covered most of the downtown area with a sweep, phoning and visiting dozens of hotels, motels, and flop houses, but they'd uncovered nothing. Either Greve had gone out of town, or he was just getting smarter. Of course, he might have slipped through. If only they'd had the description earlier, could have had those people looking for him before he would have come in.

  Tommy and Mac moved out of familiar territory, further into the city. The bars grew scarcer, and the strip joints disappeared. Here and there were boutiques, flower shops – real citizen establishments. He stopped into an all-night diner and asked the girl behind the counter, but no luck.

  "I see a million cars a night, pal," she told him, "and I wouldn't know a Dart from a Mustang."

  Swell. They continued down the road and stopped in front of a phone booth about a mile from Sid's. "We've got to turn back, Mac," Tommy said, his eyes blazing with frustration. He isn't around here, or if he is, we aren't going to get him this way. We need the car, and we need to call in."

  He ducked into the phone booth quickly, dialed the operator and got patched. Another delay. He'd had about all of those he could stomach for one night.

  "We need to widen the search," he told Caroline at dispatch. "Mac and I are as far as forty-eighth. We're going to cut back and get the cruiser and move a little faster.

  "We'll start up at fifty-eighth, near the First National, and cruise the hotels back this way. Get as many men as you can spare out there doing the same in the other direction. We may not have much time."

  "Right," she said, hanging up before he could say anything more. Tommy motioned to Mac, and they spun around and headed back toward Sid's at a jog. Caroline had worked the dispatch desk for nearly fifteen years, ever since she'd finished prep school. She knew what she was doing, and she knew the streets even better than Tommy or Mac did. If there were a place to look, she'd have someone there pronto.

  "We should have brought the damned car," Mac grumbled, barreling along at Tommy's heels.

  "Yeah," Tommy gasped, "but look at the exercise we're getting. Besides," he added, "who'd have thought the guy would move so far from his usual territory?"

  They ran on in silence, covering the mile quickly. Tommy was thinking what he didn't say out loud, thinking that Mac was right. Damn. Who'd have thought the psycho would go crazy and start killing women to take their freaking pictures. What was he doing, trying to use logic?

  They didn't even pause at the bar. They rounded the corner and leaped into the cruiser. Tommy glanced up briefly, unable to resist the urge to wave at Marty, then screeched into traffic, almost plowing into a large, pink Cadillac as he swerved into the street and barreled off toward downtown.

  Christ, he thought, I am really losing it. Got to get a grip.

  They drove in silence. There were a lot of places Greve could have gone, a lot of hotels in a city that size. Both of them knew the odds were against them, that the psycho could be holed up anywhere, even as they spoke, doing unmentionable things to a woman they were sworn to protect.

  The fact that the woman worked for Gates was irrelevant. Tommy remembered her, remembered her smile and her legs. She'd seemed pleasant, friendly, even, and she certainly didn't deserve what was happening now. Nobody did.

  They flashed through traffic lights, siren blaring and lights flashing brilliantly in the darkness. The time for secrecy and caution were past. Tommy barely missed a drunk who wandered aimlessly into the street near Fortieth, and swerved around a fender bender at Fifty-first, narrowly missing one of the drivers, who stood, staring after him and waving his fist angrily.

  "Asshole," Tommy muttered. He drove on until the light for Fifty-eighth came into sight, and then slowed, turning off the lights and siren and flipping on his signal.

  There were two hotels on that street within reasonable distance from Broadway. On Fifty-seventh and Fifty-sixth, there were none. Fifty-fifth and fourth had one each, and there were three on Fifty-third. That left only one place more on Fifty-first before they reached the outer limits of the network of cops already searching.

  If they found nothing in any of those places, or heard nothing from the station, they'd head east next and work outward. He didn't want to think about that. They needed to find Greve before that, or it might not matter if they found him at all. It might be too late, once more, and the idea of another innocent woman becoming one of this guy’s painted clowns was more than Tommy could bear.

  He gripped the wheel so tightly that by the time they passed their third motel, the skin of his knuckles was white, and his teeth grated together. The tension ate at his reserves of sanity and stole his ability to focus.

  Mac left him alone, doing the legwork, running inside each place as Tommy cruised the parking lots, looking for the blue Dart, looking for anyone who might have seen such a car, or a man by the description Terri had provided. It became mechanical, almost ritualistic. The pattern was the same at each place, as was the outcome.

  All around them people went about their business
as usual. Each place they stopped, the story was the same. No, they hadn't seen any such couple. No, they hadn't seen any such car, and, by the way, what does a "Dart" look like anyway. By the way, what are you fellows doing out here bothering us? Don't you have some drug dealers to catch, or something?

  Mac did the running because Tommy would not have survived it. When the grinning little shyster behind the counter of the second hotel, a dingy place called The Hacienda, gave that screwy smile and shrugged, as if the whereabouts of a psychotic killer who was loose in their city was not a matter of any real importance, Mac had wanted to strangle the bastard himself. Tommy would have, cheerfully.

  It was slow work. There were different shifts to deal with, parking attendants at one place, a clerk at another who, seeing the chance to appear important, hemmed and hawed for over fifteen minutes over whether he might have seen such a car, only to admit later that he must have been mistaken.

  The time ticked away, and each passing streetlight flashed like a camera bulb in Tommy's brain. Each flash strobed images through Tommy’s mind like a bizarre memory-driven slide show. Some were of the women already dead, some of the current victim, Madeline, even a couple of Terri. He fought them back down to the recesses of his brain and let instinct take over. There was no time left for bullshit.

  * * *

  Christian opened the door quickly and ushered Madeline inside. She immediately took off her jacket, as though she were too warm, and began to wander about the room. It reminded him a bit of the way Veronica had reacted to the penthouse, only the opposite. She was obviously amused by the simplicity of the place.

  His lights were already set, the makeup kit out and prepared on the dresser. He'd left both empty and half-full glasses of scotch lying about and a couple of beer cans, tossed some towels on the floor in the corner. He hadn't given it that much thought because he didn't think she suspected him of anything.

  The room gave the impression of having been stayed in for a few days, and not by a neat person. One of the twin beds that occupied the room's center was rumpled, as if he'd slept in it. The other was draped with a spread and backed by a black drop cloth.

  "That will never do," Christian said, talking half to himself and half for her benefit. "The scene you related is vibrant, colorful, but the black would swallow you.

  "I set this up this morning. I'd envisioned more of a focus on your eyes, and on your hair, but no. The scarves are a wonderful touch. Let's see what we can do."

  Before he started he went to the dresser and poured two glasses of scotch, or appeared to. One, his own, he pulled quickly from behind the makeup case while she was not looking. He needed the alcohol to settle his nerves, and she'd be more likely to accept hers if he had one as well.

  The other, poured straight from the bottle in plain view, had a mild dose of the Cocaine he had left from the supply Gates had provided him in it. Christian hoped the taste would not be noticeable, and that the effects would be as he remembered them. Terri’s inhibitions would have to be lowered for everything to be perfect.

  "I hope you don't mind scotch," he said, handing her the glass and taking his own to the nightstand by the bed. "It's all I have. I wasn't really prepared to entertain."

  "Scotch is great," she giggled. "It's all Hi drinks, you know. I never touched the stuff until I met him, but I've developed quite a taste for it over the years. Maybe you two have more in common than I thought."

  If you only knew, he thought, smiling. He reached out and grabbed the edges of the black drop cloth, folded it quickly and neatly and moved it over to the other bed. He was glad that he'd come prepared for change. The image she'd given him was sharp in his mind, and with only the black backdrop it would have been impossible to create.

  He went to his satchel, which stood open by the dresser, and pulled out a different cloth. This one was light blue and silky. It glistened in the light, and he felt the softness brushing his fingers as he carried it to the bed. It would blend with her hair, no clash to it at all. It had been his second choice all along, and for what he now envisioned, it would be perfect.

  He flipped the material out, covering the mattress and the headboard completely. He didn't pull it tight but instead left a sort of rough, textured look to it. It would not be like this for the final photographs, in any case, only the preliminary set-up.

  Christian had to experience the shoot from her perspective first. That meant he had to find a way to get within her defenses, to learn everything he could as quickly as he could. He only had so much time.

  He turned back to her and made a production of circling her. He gazed at her hair, her legs, every contour of her body, adjusting lights here and there and watching her drink.

  At first she seemed self-conscious, circling with him and giggling, tossing her head and blushing. She was obviously not used to such close scrutiny, though also not opposed to it. He continued to study her, and she tossed back a big gulp of her drink, watching him work.

  He took the glass, refilled it for her, and continued his preparations. After a few moments she began to loosen up. He saw the smile that had first captivated him burst forth, and he answered it with one of his own. Perfect. She was everything he'd thought she would be, and more, and she was finally getting into the proper mindset he needed her in to take possession of that beauty.

  "You are lovely," he said simply, having circled her at least half a dozen times and taken in every possible angle. She wobbled a little, watching him, but pretending not to, and tilted her head to the side coyly. She was posing a little, getting into the moment.

  "The pictures will be masterpieces," he added.

  "I'll bet you say that to all your models," she smiled at him and set her glass down. She had to put out a hand to steady her against the dresser. Christian moved forward and held her gently by the shoulders to help support her weight.

  "Not at all," he said. "Most of them were impossible bitches, to tell you the truth."

  "I guess I've had a bit more than I thought," she giggled, leaning back against him. He knew this time there was no hiding his erection, and he waited to see how she would react. She didn't pull away.

  "Hiram is a very lucky man," he said, leading her away from the dresser and over toward the bed. "I guess I'm a bit jealous, now that I've had the chance to get to know you better."

  "Oh, I'm no catch, if that's what you mean," she said, and he detected bitterness in her voice. "I still look okay, I know that, but my best years are gone, Chris . . . can I call you Chris?"

  Her eyes swiveled up to meet his, very serious now, looking adorable as she tried to concentrate on her thoughts. He nodded, not wanting to break the spell, not caring what the hell she called him.

  "I guess I'm just hoping not to grow old alone, at this point." She sat down on the bed and ran her hands softly over the silky blue covering, caressing it. She looked like a little girl at that moment, playing with a new toy.

  "Is that why you really want the pictures?" Christian asked, suddenly seeing what she was getting at. "You want to capture that beauty, capture the youth that is leaving us both behind?"

  "Something like that." She answered, looking at him in surprise. "I want memories, Chris, memories that mean something. I have a lifetime of memories that most people would be ashamed of. I want memories of things that might have been, as well. I want memories of my dreams.

  "Don't get me wrong. I wouldn't trade any of them in for the white house with the picket fence, or anything like that. I just don't want it all to end with me laying there on the deathbed going, 'what the hell – is that all?

  "That photograph I told you about, that's one of those dreams, Chris. I want you to give that to me tonight, to treasure. I want it for Hi, sure, but I also want it for me."

  He sat beside her on the bed. His heart thudded as he wrapped her in his arms. She leaned into him, set her head on his shoulder and sighed.

  "We aren't getting many pictures taken." she commented, turning her eyes up to his ag
ain. "I'm afraid I'm taking advantage of your sensitive nature, not to mention taking up your time, boring you with my life when you have work to do."

  "It's okay," he whispered, his voice hoarse with desire. His muscles twitched wherever they touched. "The camera isn't going anywhere, and believe me, I am not bored."

  She pulled away, but only slightly and shook her head slowly, as if in regret. "I shouldn't be doing any of this," she said. "I said I wanted this for Hiram, and I did, at first.

  "You made it all come clear for me," she said, looking up at him. "Is that how you do it? Do you just look, and the picture crystallizes for you, and you catch it? Can you always do that? This is for me. This night is like my farewell to freedom, my final curtain of independence. You don't mind being a part of that, do you?"

  He looked down into her eyes, and she must have seen his answer painted in the desire that flooded his features, because she raised herself against him, letting him enfold her in his arms, and brought her lips to his. Her tongue was through his lips before he had a chance to think about it, and he responded, moving against her and feeling her flow over his skin.

  Christian closed his eyes as they came together and let his hands roam over her body, memorizing the curves, the lines, familiarizing himself with her landscape, and then building his image without sight. Her hands were not shy and not nearly as drunken and clumsy as he'd expected. She loosened his belt, unfastened his pants and pushed them away urgently.

  Christian undid the catch at the top of her dress, and she slipped up and out of it like a serpent, barely hesitating in her own explorations of his skin. He was afraid he would ejaculate in her hand before he even had the chance to enter her, but she had other ideas.

  What followed was a blur of slick, wet skin, hot lips and soft sound. Christian moved with her, fighting to gain control of his fevered body and failing. She held him with her eyes, teased him with her hands and her lips, and all the while she controlled him, used him to build toward her climax. It was her night; she’d said so and nothing Christian could do would prevent it.