The Acceptance s-2

by L. L. Foster

  Beads of sweat rolled down Jimbo’s temple. “You’re fucking insane.”

  “Bet on it. Insane enough to castrate you without a single qualm.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed hard. “Jesus, Gaby. I . . . I gotta make my money.”

  Gaby thought about slicing him, just a little, just enough to gain compliance. Her razor-sharp blade would cut through his denim as cleanly as surgical steel sliced flesh.

  She pondered the idea—and then she felt it, the transuding of depravity into her being.

  He was near.

  Triumph ripped through her before the calling could devour her.

  She wouldn’t wait for God’s command. Not this time.

  She’d hone her omnipotent numen and seek out the evil on her own recognizance.

  Under her own tutelary power.

  She’d be in charge.

  “Jesus, bitch, you’re cutting me!”

  Oh hell. Refocusing on the idiot before her, Gaby withdrew the knife a safe distance from his crotch. “Do we understand each other, Jimbo?”

  Hands cupping his jewels, he hissed, “Yeah, sure. Whatever. Just back the fuck off.”

  She gave him one more long look, but in light of this new challenge, Jimbo meant little enough to her. As Gaby reached back to replace her knife in the sheath, Jimbo struck out, intending to slug her straight in the face.

  Fool.

  Gaby dodged the blow, caught his arm, and wrenched it behind his back. His spine bowed as she added pressure to his wrist. “You would dare, Jimbo?”

  Defiant even in the grip of pain, he shook his head. “You’re making me look like a chump in front of everyone.”

  “No,” Gaby said, and needing expedient measures, she twisted hard enough to make him yell out in agony. “You did that to yourself.”

  Releasing him with a shove, she stepped away.

  The whores ran over to Jimbo, offering sympathy and assistance—and getting cursed for their efforts. Gaby walked away from them all. She didn’t want to be followed, so she didn’t dare run.

  The invading affliction boiled to the surface, but didn’t yet take over. She had time.

  She’d get him. Or her.

  And when she did, God Himself wouldn’t interfere.

  Nervousness kept Oren walking fast down the third dark, narrow alley. He had to make it quick to hedge off possible harm to himself. So far, he hadn’t had much luck. Evening would prove a better time for his goal, but he lacked the courage necessary to wander the alleys, in the slums, during the dark of the night.

  Like engorged veins, broken pipes climbed the outer walls enclosing the alley, trickling fluid, making the way slick. Mold grew rampant. Rats fed off refuse.

  It was all so distasteful—and yet, so necessary.

  Because of her.

  Because of that damned cop.

  Up ahead, at the bottom of concrete stairs leading farther into the bowels of hell, Oren saw what appeared to be a shrouded head.

  His third, rapid target for the day.

  He always saved the best for last.

  To be safe, Oren slipped on gloves, then withdrew the one remaining hypodermic and prepared it for use.

  The waiting body didn’t move.

  The nearer Oren got, the more details were illuminated. Grizzled graying hair poked out from beneath an old knit hat. Long, knobby fingers, disfigured with arthritis, clutched an all but empty bottle of booze. The reek of unwashed, aging skin and hair emanated from the huddled form.

  Heavy in his pocket, the knife he’d brought along encouraged and titillated him.

  He could barely wait.

  The fouled drugs he’d dropped off at the crack house were amusing, giving the possibility of multiple deaths if a druggie chose to share.

  The pipe bomb left near the playground, waiting for some idiot child to detonate, kept his anticipation sky-high.

  But this, the promise of real bloodshed, pleased him the most.

  Giddy excitement threatened to bubble over, stealing his control. Oren tamped it down. This foul creature wouldn’t offer much of a challenge to his intelligence and cunning, but it’d pose confusion to the bitch and to the cop.

  That counted for a lot.

  Oren was only a few feet away when the bedraggled, decrepit being stirred. He looked up through watery, faded eyes, vague with indulgence and pathos.

  Too stupid to sense his own inescapable death.

  Lunging forward, Oren stabbed the syringe into the man’s chest with brutish delight.

  The victim’s wrinkled mouth opened in terror; a feeble hand batted at the needle.

  But already, the lethal dose of drugs scoured through his bloodstream, rendering him mute, paralyzed.

  Defenseless.

  Unwilling to waste time, Oren retrieved the syringe, broke off the needle against the brick wall, and dropped it back into his pocket.

  The man’s head slumped to the side.

  Such an easy death for him; unfortunately, he wouldn’t feel a thing.

  Oren withdrew the knife. For only a moment, he fingered the hilt, letting his palm become accustomed to the grip, the weight.

  The man twitched, a spontaneous pinching of muscles, and that stimulated Oren, quickened his heartbeat and his glee. Laughing, he stabbed the man in the cheek.

  Blood spurted out against the bricks, bathing the dull rust in glistening crimson.

  Oh God, that felt good.

  He stabbed again, this time sinking half the blade into the man’s shoulder. Then into his chest. His thigh.

  Entranced by his bloody results, at the display of gore and torn muscle, Oren slashed at the deceased man’s nose, leaving cartilage exposed as the only tether keeping it on his face.

  Seeing the nose dangling there, Oren tipped his head. And laughed.

  The idiot drunkard looked so ridiculous.

  But the enjoyment couldn’t last. He didn’t dare vacillate; strike and move. That was the plan. Again and again.

  With one last thrust, Oren buried the knife into the man’s face. It deflected off his cheekbone and slipped alongside his temple, under saggy skin and putrid flesh.

  Macabre.

  Oren loved it.

  Oh how he would enjoy the look on the cop’s face when he found the man. But some pleasures would be denied him. Oren accepted that.

  Stripping off his gloves, he pocketed them, and with a cursory inspection to certify no blood splatters marred his tidy clothes, he went on through the alley and out the other side. Within half an hour, he’d be back at his house, secluded, safe, watching the news for any word of the destruction he’d wrought.

  If it all wasn’t such a bother, he’d be having the time of his life.

  * * *

  Gaby was closing in on her prey when an onslaught of sensation contracted her muscles and stiffened her bones. No, no!

  Pain of this magnitude either meant she was too late, or there were multiple threats.

  Caught in an illimitable quandary, the pain intensified to egregious proportions. She stumbled, fell against a wall.

  What to do?

  Closing her eyes, she tried to bank the physical misery and clear her mind for instruction. Gasping in deep, fast breaths, she separated the callings, weighed them, and made a choice. For one calling, she was already too late to gain anything. For another, there was still time.

  From what she prevised, only one summons would offer erudition.

  God help her if she chose the wrong one.

  Hating herself, Gaby gave over to the deepest encroachment of consecrated instruction. Driven forward, following a compulsion, she traversed to a dark alley. The pain blistered and popped—then settled into a fizzling ache.

  Too late. She knew it, and still she hastened in, her knife in hand, her senses on alert. She was so immersed in the need to find a live body that she nearly tripped over a dead one.

  She pulled back and focused on the grisly scene.

  Blood drenched a human’s clothes, spl
attered the surrounding bricks, the hard ground beneath. The body, still in a semi-upright position, was so abused, Gaby couldn’t determine if it was male or female.

  But it was a stranger.

  And this was all for show.

  Careful not to disrupt anything, knowing that somewhere here, a clue waited, she scoured the area and, eventually, descried the needle.

  Bingo. The tie she needed to convince Luther that the attacks were related.

  By the looks of things, the poor drunk hadn’t put up much of a struggle, meaning he’d probably died before the mutilation.

  Tipping her head back to see beyond the old towering buildings, Gaby peered up to the cloudless sky. “Very merciful. Thank you.”

  Urgency pressed in on her, reminding her that this corpse wasn’t the only source of her suffering. Keeping the heterogeneous pains segregated, she decided she had to quickly notify Luther of the incident before following the other dictate.

  Backing out of the alley, she went to the nearest pay phone, dug out Luther’s card and some change, and put in the call.

  Sounding harried and frustrated, he answered on the first ring. “Detective Cross.”

  “It’s me.”

  His tone changed. “Gaby?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.” Ever since she’d stood him up for breakfast a few days ago, and then rescued the woman from the fire, she’d avoided him. She had to avoid him in order to sense these perversions. Around him, her perception was blown to hell. “Surprise, surprise, huh?”

  After a tick of silence, he asked, “Is everything okay?”

  Straight to the chase, huh? Maybe he was still pissed at her. And maybe he’d finally given up on her.

  She wouldn’t blame him either way. “Actually . . . no. I hate to fuck up your day, but—”

  “I’m dealing with three dead addicts. Believe me, my day is already fucked.”

  Three dead addicts? Gaby thought of that needle lying by the dead body in the alley. “What happened?”

  There was a rustle as Luther probably moved away from the crowd. “Someone conveniently lost a stash of what looks like cocaine in a crack house, only it was laced with something deadly. Three women made use of it, and after the first died in convulsions, the third hightailed it to the hospital. She got there in time to shriek out the story, flail in panic, and expire. The docs tell me it was an ugly, painful death. They’re still diagnosing the contaminant used.”

  It struck Gaby that Luther was in a strange sharing mood for a man who was through with a woman. But what the hell? She’d take any edge she could get. “What about the other person? You said there were three, right?”

  “Found her dead at the crack house. Whatever they shot into their veins, it killed them quick and nasty.”

  Damn. Gaby wanted to ponder the connections, but she couldn’t ignore the demand growing to excruciating proportions.

  Hand shaking, she kept the phone to her ear. “I can trump that.” She stared toward the alley, making sure no one entered from the street side. She couldn’t guard both entrances at the same time, though. “Someone played slice and dice on a transient dozing in a drunken stupor in an alley.”

  “And you know this how?”

  She heard the burgeoning anger in Luther’s tone, but there wasn’t time enough, or caring enough, to apologize. “I’m looking at him. Or her. Not sure which it is, the body is so . . . dismantled. Judging by the clothes, though, I’d guess a guy.”

  “Give me an address.”

  Gaby rattled off directions, then said, “I found a needle by the body. I left it there, but I don’t want you to miss it.”

  “No faith in my detective skills, huh?”

  “Don’t go wounded on me. This is too important for ego.”

  “Right.” His tone changed. “Do not go near it again, Gaby, do you understand me? I’m coming right now, so stay on the street and stay out of trouble.”

  “You should hurry, because I can’t stay. I need to . . . do something.” She wasn’t sure what yet, but if she didn’t move soon, the torment would overtake her.

  “Gaby!”

  She hung up on Luther. Bossy jerk. What did he think— that she looked for trouble?

  Hell, it stalked her, often at the most inconvenient times.

  Even as she started on her way, following her instincts, each step quicker than the one before, Gaby began putting the puzzle pieces together.

  Poisoned addicts.

  Mutilated transient.

  Trouble always came in threes, and this was trouble. Now in a full-out run, going on autopilot to expedite matters, Gaby ran several blocks away. Because she was focused inward, she didn’t at first recognize the area where Mort lived, not until she came alongside the playground at the abandoned elementary school across from Mort’s apartments.

  Her steps became sluggish, her brain ticking like a bomb. Like a million tiny razors cutting into her flesh, the pain took her.

  Oh no.

  Kids of various ages and colors filled the broken concrete play area. Rusty chains on swings clashed with squeals of laughter. High-pitched voices rose like musical bells, happy and carefree despite the public squalor and misery of their lives.

  Gaby saw them all.

  And she saw the pipe bomb.

  Her heart shot into her throat. Her vision narrowed. God no. Not a group of children.

  In one agile leap, she went over the chain-link fence and loped to the center of the playground. Two youths, probably ten to thirteen years of age, noticed the bomb and ran toward it.

  “No.”

  They looked up, startled by her intrusion. Long strides took Gaby to them, and she stood directly over the bomb, using her body as a physical block. The taller of the two boys pushed tangled, reddish hair out of his eyes and glared at her. “We saw it first.”

  “Tough tittie, kid. I’m laying claim.”

  The little bugger bunched up at her. “You can’t do that!”

  “Watch me.” Gaby spotted a cell phone in his pocket and said, “Give me that.”

  His soft white chin, marred with a bruise and freckled with dirt, went into the air. “It’s mine.”

  “I’ll give it back after I make a call.” When he started to retreat, Gaby hauled him close and relieved him of the phone. She shoved him away and said, “Now get out of here. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

  “Hey!” He jumped, trying to reach it where she held it over her head. “Give it to me!”

  Damn. She hated to scare a kid, she really did. But she wanted them safe, and that meant that they had to move away.

  All of them.

  Unleashing the darkest of her paladin essence, Gaby leaned close, stared hard. “Get out of here. Now.”

  The kid backpedaled so fast, he fell on his butt. His buddy took off, unwilling to wait for him, screeching loud enough to wake the dead.

  None of the little miscreants went far though. They huddled together, watching her, wary and curious, and Gaby knew how she must look.

  For once, she was glad. Anything to keep them out of range of the explosion, should the bomb detonate.

  She dialed Luther again.

  He answered with a roared, “Where the hell are you?”

  Wincing, Gaby jerked the phone away from her ear. “Jesus.” Under her current deadly situation, her temper frayed. “Asshole. That hurt.” Then curiously, she asked, “How’d you know it was me?”

  “A fucking hunch.”

  “Wow, you really are good,” she mocked, trying to lighten her fractured mood.

  “Damn it, Gaby, I told you to stay put.”

  “Yeah, but I couldn’t. Have you seen the body in the alley yet?”

  “I’m almost there. Where are you?”

  “Well, that’s the thing.” She gulped, looked down at that damned bomb resting between her feet, and she felt sick.

  “Gaby,” Luther said, and it sounded like a warning. “Talk to me. Are you in danger?”

  “It’s worse
than that, Luther.” Again she gulped. “A lot of kids are.”

  “Kids?” Icy control replaced his anger. “Where are you?”

  “Well, you see . . . I’m sort of straddling a pipe bomb that our guy put in the playground across from Mort’s place.”

  A long, pained pause preceded Luther’s moderate, composed voice. “Step away from it, Gaby. Get as far from there as you can—”

  “No can do, cop. Don’t you get it? It was left here on purpose so the kids would find it. And they did. I had to run the little buggers off, but you know kids today—they didn’t go far enough.”

  “Shit.”

  “There’re twenty or more of them playing here. If this thing blows, I don’t know how badly they’ll be hurt. So . . . I can’t budge.”

  “Got it.” Luther breathed fast, then went into detective mode and took charge. “I’m on my way, honey. There should be some uniforms in the area that can be there in under three minutes. They’ll help to evacuate. Until then, don’t move. Don’t touch it. Don’t—”

  “Yeah right. I’m not an idiot, Luther. I’m not going to play tag with it.” She eyed the audience of fascinated kids, making certain they kept their distance. “Just hurry up, okay?”

  She hung up and surveyed the children. Most of them were barefoot, many were shirtless. They were thin, dirty, their hair hadn’t been combed and their teeth hadn’t been brushed. But thanks to naïveté, they appeared mostly happy.

  Gaby couldn’t remember ever being like that. Her youth had been spent in inexplicable pain, shuffled from one un-welcoming house to another, never understood, never accepted.

  Never loved.

  Thoughts of Father Mullond, the only person to ever accept her, filtered in. He’d made a difference to her life, and then, he was taken away. Gaby quickly blocked the memory. She needed all her faculties about her now, without the contamination of sadness.

  “Hey, kid?” When the boy she’d terrorized met her gaze, Gaby pitched his phone to him.

  He caught it handily. Emboldened by the return of his prized phone, he edged a foot closer to her. “S’that really a bomb?”