Tim put the picture back into his pocket, withdrawing his hand again with a small slip of paper. “I want all the people on this list in interviews with me. I don’t care how stupid or inconvenient it may sound.”
Shnieder took the list and went down it, reading it aloud and furrowing his brow at some of Tim’s choices. “Peterson? Harris? Smith? Thomas and Frederick I can understand, but what do you want with those first three children? It doesn’t make sense, man,” he said, trying to reason with him.
“The Drew kid, too. I’ve been trying to get hold of him since the Genblade capture.”
“Mr. Drew is not in school today,” Shnieder mumbled absent-mindedly, trying to recall where each of those students would be at this time of day.
“Isn’t that convenient,” Tim mumbled, putting a toothpick into his mouth and beginning to chew on it as the gears started to grind inside his head.
He couldn’t wait for that reassignment.
Mike had been in Chemistry class with Mr. Howards when the intercom had buzzed to life and hailed him to the library. He’d been picking a hole in the wall next to him, trying to appear interested in what the teacher was saying about some new theorem he should know by now. The truth was he just couldn’t concentrate anymore. His mind was elsewhere, understandably. As it turned out, it had been in the library, where he now sat across from Tim White, a man whom he admired a great deal and yet despised for the memories that he wrenched up. He’d been expecting a conference with Dr. Phillips, so the African American federal agent sitting across from him, running thick fingers through his short wiry hair, was a welcome surprise.
“How have you been, Tim?” Mike asked, remembering how frustrated the cop had been after he and Cathy had called him ‘Officer White’ or ‘Sir’ for the hundredth time. “You look good.”
Tim smiled genuinely at Mike, who was an extraordinary young man in his eyes. “Looks can be deceiving,” he chuckled. “You should know that. I’ve been better, though. The precinct saddled me with this damned case a week before I was scheduled to leave.” He turned to Mike, looking at him as an equal. “Do you have any idea how fun a rape case is?”
“None at all?” Mike hazarded.
“None at all,” Tim repeated, nodding.
“Then why are you talking to me, Tim? Am I a suspect?”
Tim chuckled. “No. I’m talking to you cause you’re like me.”
Mike looked puzzled, leaning his head to one side.
Tim leaned forward, stroked his goatee, then lay his hands out before him as if laying out his points. “I’m sitting here complaining about being stuck with this case, when they didn’t force me. Couldn’t. I out-rank them all now. I took it willingly, because I just can’t seem to keep my nose out of this stuff.” He gestured towards Mike. “Like you.”
“Again, why am I here?” Mike asked, throwing a suspicious eye toward the cop.
“Because you know things I don’t. You can get into places and have access to information that I never could, simply because of your age, not to mention other factors. We’ve both seen you play street hockey.”
Mike smirked.
“So I’m coming to you for information. What do you know?”
Mike swallowed. “Have you been talking to Julie?”
“Right before you came in, why?”
“What did she tell you?”
Tim coughed, lowering his voice considerably to tell Mike exactly how much trouble he could get into for repeating something of this nature. “Nothing she didn’t tell her doctor. Rape, three guys, and not so much as a physical description. And now she refuses to accept that this second rape is probably her fault for not being more helpful.”
Mike let that information stew in his head for a moment. “Two of the men you’re looking for are Allan Bishop and Bram Raine, they used to go - ”
“I know those two,” Tim nodded, suddenly looking very tired and rubbing his eyes. “They’re bad news.”
“I know,” Mike sighed, “You think after you bust them, you can get the third...”
“I can’t arrest anyone yet, Harris,” Tim sighed.
“What? But we know it’s them!” Mike shouted, jumping out of his chair and glaring down at Tim.
“No, we don’t. Not legally, anyway. You have a third hand high-school rumor that could have originated anywhere,” Tim explained, trying to keep his tone even.
“So, what?” Mike yelled, “You don’t trust me now?”
“No, I believe you,” Tim nodded, waving for Mike to sit back down, which he did. “But that information isn’t applicable in court unless it’s from a first-hand witness. In other words: unless Julie says it herself, or another victim.”
“The only other victim is in a coma, according to you.”
“And there is the second point. It is illegal for me to have given you any information in this setting whatsoever,” he said, his voice becoming grave. “We go back to HQ now, and we’re both screwed. Not only that, the sons of bitches themselves ‘ll get off because we’re guilty of obstruction, see? Then, we’d also never get hold of the third party and this whole mess would start again... only now we’d be able to do shit all. See?” He slapped the table to bring Mike back to reality. “That’s how it works in the real world, kid. Unless we can bring those yahoos in on a lesser charge, the girls in this town are gonna have to start wearing padlocks on their panties.”
Mike shook his head, scratching the back of it. He scooped up his book bag and started for the door. As he left, he bumped into Tim’s next appointment: Derek Smith. Mike squinted at Derek, the wheels within his own head beginning to grind.
By the time Bram Raine got home, it was long past dinner. That was all right, though. There was always plenty of food in the fridge in the form of leftovers and sandwich meats. He walked over to a small cooler that rested comfortably by the kitchen table and flipped open the lid, grabbing a beer out of the half-melted ice it floated in. Cracking it open and letting a certain amount of the head flow out onto his hand, he sighed and strolled over to his reclining easy chair, kicked up his feet and closed his eyes.
The living room was small and oddly shaped, with seven different ‘corners’ at odd places along the wall. A rustic stone fireplace took up most of the eastern wall, but could never be lit because the sparks always managed to catch something else ablaze in the cramped space. Most of the furniture had been found at flea markets or liberated from the side of the road when neighbors moved out of the area. The coffee table was actually a windshield from an old Chevy that he had fitted with legs.
As small as it was, the living room was still one of the larger rooms in the house. The kitchen did not even have enough room in it to open the oven door all the way, and most of the bedrooms were about the same size. As bad as it was, it was cheap, which was what he needed in a home more than anything else at this point in his life.
He looked down at his knuckle and saw a long scrape going from the base of his index finger almost straight down to his wrist, wondering how he had gotten the injury. He got a sudden flash of a wire mesh fence near Julie Peterson’s home and remembering slicing himself on it. Sighing heavily, he took another sip of his beer.
“Bram?” he heard a voice call out uncertainly, nearly making him jump out of his skin. He dropped his beer onto the carpet and it immediately started to soak into the coarse fibers. He cursed softly as he scooped up the Budweiser, then turned towards the hall that led towards the bedrooms.
She was absolutely beautiful. Maria Raine was by far the most delicate butterfly on the face of the planet, graceful and sweet. Even as she stumbled, her hands fumbling along the stucco walls of their familiar house, she still contained within her the motions of an expert ballet dancer. A pink, fluffy robe was clutched around her thinning body, only her wrinkled face and ankles exposed. Her features were haggard and frail, her face looking as though it were melting slowly in the fires of time. Even so, it wasn’t hard to tell that she had been beautiful once. Her frie
nds had often said that her eyes were possessed of a constant sparkle, preserving her youthful exuberance.
Now her eyes were a chalky white all over, their pupils faded into obscurity. There were small scars along the bridge of her nose, burn marks that were the only other souvenir from the day she lost her sight. Everyone was very careful to tell her that she looked perfectly normal, even lovely at times, knowing that such words eased her mind and she would never know the difference. Her silver hair flew in all directions, all of the bangs falling in front of her face, concealing it slightly. “Bram, is that you?” she called out again, her voice quavering with fear. Her face darted around the room expectantly, looking towards each place that she heard a new sound. “Is somebody there?”
As soon as he saw her, Bram forgot about the beer. He left it chugging liquid onto the floor and went to her side, taking her hand and hip gently to guide her to a chair. “It’s me, Mama. It’s only me.”
A warm smile spread across the old woman’s lips, as she reached up and stroked him along his rough-hewn face. That tactile contact was all she knew of her son anymore, and it always brought her great joy. “Oh, Bram. You gave me such a start. I thought it was that Allan boy again, so rude. I don’t like him, Bramwell.”
“I know, Mama,” Bram nodded softly, fixing her hair with his thick fingers. “It’s okay.” He reached deep within his jacket pocket and withdrew a tape. There were words scribbled across the cover in indecipherable handwriting... but one supposed that didn’t make much difference to Maria. “I got you something today.”
The old woman smiled thinly, trying to conceal her excitement. “Is it what I think it is?” she asked coyly, tilting her head in his direction to hear better. She was starting to go deaf too, something she feared ever so deeply.
He placed the tape in her palm, carefully closing her hand around it. “It’s the audio transcript from last week’s ‘Mystery Theatre’, complete with description of action,” he smiled.
She beamed wildly. “Oh, thank you,” she laughed, clutching the tape deck to keep it from getting away. She leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek, which he graciously returned. “I’ll go have a listen right --”
There was a moan in the background, interrupting their happy moment. Bram turned back toward the hall that his mother had come through and started towards it without a word. Maria said nothing, for she was quite used to this behavior from him. There was nothing else on his mind at the moment, no thought for his manners.
The third door on the right was covered with get-well cards and posters of the Backstreet Boys, a band that everyone but the bearer thought was a dead band. She knew better. Bram opened up the door and there she was, his little Mercedes Raine. The little girl sat upon the bed, her knees crossed Indian-style underneath her Tinkerbell comforter. Her face was tilted downward and her long, jet black hair covered the majority of her face in two straight lines. Tears dripped from her gray eyes, streaming down her cheeks like tiny waterfalls, collecting in a small pool on her faded yellow nightgown. She was no more than nine years old, but looked much closer to seven.
He walked to her, taking note of the ripped posters of Nick Carter and Winnie the Pooh that scattered her walls, their shreds flapping in the warm air current coming from a heating duct. Bram took her in his arms, leaning her head against his powerful chest and heart. “Shhh,” he cooed, the same word that had caused so much fear in Greer Donaldson. Now, an onlooker would never recognize it as the same sound. “What’s the matter, baby?” he asked, stroking her hair down the back of her head.
She sniffed back tears, mushing her nose into him and covering the front of his shirt with mucus. He really didn’t care. “It h-hurts…” she stammered and sobbed, trying desperately to force the words out.
Bram put a finger to her lips gently. “No more tears, baby,” he coaxed her. “No more cry. You be alright, soon. You see.” He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince her or himself, but it seemed to calm his child. It had been the same cancer that had killed his ex-wife a few years before, landing him with custody of Mercedes. That much, he didn’t mind. Only good thing his stupid ex had ever done for him anyway. But if Al didn’t get the money from the boss soon, he wouldn’t get his daughter the operation in time. And if he didn’t get the operation in time, then every bitch in this city was going to find out exactly what he could do.
Derek Smith walked out of the Library and slammed the door behind him, half expecting Mrs. Richards to give him a verbal scolding for it. He glared at her and waited for it, but she saw a malevolence in his eyes that chilled her deeply and she decided against prying any deeper. She turned back to organizing her card catalog. Derek breathed heavily, his knuckles white with the need to bury them into something. Anything. Specifically, Tim White’s soft facial flesh. His face was livid with anger as he stared down at the cuts his nails had made in his palm, blood bubbling to the surface.
“He can have that effect on people,” came Mike’s voice from the corner. The tall blonde leaned against the coat racks and lockers that lined the walls, his black shirt and jeans hiding him in the shadows. His milky-white complexion stood out though, making Derek wonder how he had missed it. Mike stood up and took a few casual steps towards Derek, smirking a little at the teen’s rage. “Lemme guess, he kept pushing buttons until he found one that hurt you, then he kept pushing it?”
Derek actually laughed at that, waving a finger at Mike. “Something like that,” he reasoned, “Jeez, don’t you just wanna rip that guy’s head off?”
“Sometimes,” he nodded, then re-thought the response. “Actually, all of the time. Tact isn’t his strong suit, I’m afraid. One of these days, he’s going to break his neck jumping to conclusions.”
“Yeah,” Derek snarled, “He actually accused me of helping Al and Raine do this shit to Julie. Me! I mean, she’s probably the one person in this school that I wouldn’t take a machete to...” his voice trailed off for a second, eyeing Mike’s right side sheepishly. “...Present company excluded, of course.”
Mike laughed, an act that stretched his stitches painfully. “Think nothing of it,” he replied, trying to keep the agony out of his voice. He didn’t do a very good job of it. “But that’s not really what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Derek squinted, backing up a pace. He hadn’t realized that there was an agenda to this conversation. The revelation did not bode well with him. He felt his fists clench tight again, almost without his knowledge. “What did you want to talk to me about, Harris?” he asked accusingly. “You come here to give me the third degree too? Guilty by association, right? I’ve got a dick so that makes me a rapist?”
“No,” Mike stated evenly, careful to sap all of the emotion from his voice. “I think we need to have a little talk... about what to do about the way things are in this city.”
Derek smiled. He was beginning to like Mike.
Xander felt Cathy dab another cotton swab onto the gash on his brow, feeling some of the fibers get stuck there by the half-congealed blood. He was beginning to get used to waking up covered in various bodily fluids with a cute brunette leaning over his face. He stared blankly at his computer until his eyes began to hurt, then stared some more. He felt something plop onto his cheek, something moist. He turned and looked at Cathy, who was still crying far more than she would have believed herself able.
Her throat bled, pumping redness into her mouth every few seconds. Her entire face shone from tears and sweat from dragging Xander over the stairs and into his room, which had made her feel even more warm and clammy than she already had. The air around her was humid, making it difficult to move as she dabbed the swabs all over her friend’s body in an effort to halt the bleeding that only seemed to be accelerating. Cathy struggled to see where the two of them had found humor in this only a few hours before... even some small degree of romance. She watched him, his tight skin splitting from mere movement and creating more cuts for her to tend to, and she couldn’t help but think of hi
m as the loser that had sat across from her in tech class all last year. He’d barely paid any attention to her while they were in school, or her to him for that matter. There wasn’t any need to; their social lives were so different. She’d always felt like they were on two different planets... But even that was better than how she felt now. It was as though her world had been destroyed and she’d been thrust into the hell that was Planet Drew. A place of pain and constant suffering, where she was just some stupid secondary character in a story that was all about him and his new life. When night fell on that planet, she went from the tortured to the hunted... and if you’ve never experienced both, you simply can’t appreciate the difference. At least she could see who was torturing her. When she felt hunted, there were only glimpses in the darkness, shadows that haunted her dreams and made her wake feeling cold no matter how many covers she piled onto herself. They stalked her through the night, but she never once saw them. She could only trust that she knew who they were. Tommy, Sud, Grendel... Black Womb. Yes, in this world even Xander was different come nightfall. Yet in so many ways, he was still the same. That’s what frightened her most about the killer living inside of her best friend. It wasn’t the differences... but the similarities.
“Xander?” she whispered softly.
His eyes kept staring forward at some unknown spot on the wall, and he never even blinked to acknowledge her presence.
“Xander,” Spider repeated, deep within his sub-conscious. She smiled as she looked down at his beaten body, stroking her fingers along Genblade’s chest. His hands were all over her, and she motioned for him to stop. Instead, he got up and slammed her to the ground, sucking on her neck hungrily. An obscene look of pleasure filled her face, a small moan escaping from quivering lips. She turned her head to the beaten teen about ten feet away from her, speaking to him even as Genblade persisted in slowly working her clothing off of her. “You’ll have to pardon Adam,” she said to Xander. “He hasn’t had a go since you locked him away, and I think he’s suffering from withdrawal.” She paused, and for a moment the old, evil Eve was back again. “It’s Sara’s reproductive organs that are shimmering with pleasure for him now, remember. She’s still inside of me, telling me how much she loves him. How he’s a better lover then you could ever be...”
Habeas Corpus: Black Womb (Black Womb Collection Book 1) Page 28