Blood of Others

by Rick Mofina

  “At the advent of an episode, make an injection.”

  How could he do this? Was it too late? No. He squeezed the case. No. Please. Feeling the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. Sitting on the floor he was forcing his body between the tub and toilet, wedging himself, squeezing himself. His arms shaking. Pushing them tight between the porcelain, the needle glinting, quivering, against the tiny rubber membrane of the vial, cupping his hand over it, piercing the vial, drawing in the clear medication, concentrating hard to ensure the measure was accurate…

  “You must not exceed it. To do so, would prove immediately fatal.”

  Did he know he was shouting now, pounding his head against the tub -- knocking at his door. Someone there.

  “Sir? Is everything all right. Sir?”

  Pulling his lips together, harnessing the pain, humming now, gripping the needle, moving it toward his skull

  “Sir? Do you need anything?”

  The needle touching his skin at the critical point behind his ear under his jawbone.

  “Please open the door, sir.”

  The hypodermic flashing, quivering. His free hand rising to steady it, using all his strength to wedge himself to stillness.

  “Relief should be instantaneous.”

  Holding his breath. Squeezing the handle in one rapid motion. The medication flowing cool in his veins. Water dousing an inferno. It was wonderful. Calming. Glorious. Inhaling, the oxygen relaxing his strained muscles, tension retreating.

  Death defeated.

  For now.

  “Sir?”

  Vryke slipped on a hotel robe bearing its insignia above the left breast. Without disengaging the security bar, he opened the door a crack.

  A uniformed hotel staff member is standing in the carpeted hallway at the door. A red-haired man in his twenties. Neat brush cut. A fullback’s neck. Strong muscular build. Height matching Vryke’s.

  “Sir.” Voice courteous, low. His eyes taking the usual subtle stock of Vryke’s scars. “We’ve had calls about a disturbance. Is there anything we can do for you?”

  “No. Thank you. It’s my sister, who dropped by to visit. She has epilepsy.” Concern crept onto the younger man’s face as he mentally repeated epilepsy. Vryke’s voice is a whisper as he said, “She’s had a spell, but she’s fine now. Resting. I apologize for inconveniencing anyone.”

  “Would you like medical attention arranged, sir?”

  “That won’t be necessary. Wait.” Vryke disappeared, then returned to pass a folded twenty dollar bill through the crack. “Thank you for your kind concern. We’re fine.”

  The man closed his hand on the money. “Thank you, sir.”

  Vryke stayed at the door, hearing him pad down the hall to the elevator. Then he switched off his room lights and went to the cushioned chair he had placed before the windows. He sat in the dark, staring at the mountains, unable to sleep.

  He set one of his computers on his lap, the screen glowing on his face. With a click he opened a hidden file. A clear video recording began with a tour of Belinda’s empty apartment.

  Then Belinda alone at the café, waiting, looking directly at the camera as it zooms in, tightening on her face, cutting away, then the swans gliding on the pond in the park, Belinda, alone on the bench, walking alone in the park, then to the theatre. Belinda is alone waiting for her order at the snack bar. Vryke is standing almost beside her, looking for chocolate covered almonds but touching and buying nothing. He turns to her, smiles, starting a conversation saying: “I think Franco Zeffirelli’s adaptation of the story is the best on film, don’t you?”

  Surprised, Belinda turns to him, less than two feet away now. The microscopic camera lenses hidden in Vryke’s thick-framed glasses capture her face while the pin-head-sized microphones record her voice, transmitting the data to his home-built miniature digital recording system in his shirt pocket.

  “Yes.” A smile. “It’s very good.”

  “The world’s favorite young star-crossed lovers.”

  The clerk is oblivious. Her boyfriend hates her new tattoo. She had been arguing with him on the phone, keeping them waiting.

  “Yes.” Belinda pays for her popcorn and soda, a tiny measure of unease rising.

  Vryke knows he is a hideous stranger to her but she is a hurtful liar and he is fulfilling their destiny, resisting a sneer when he says wistfully, “Star-crossed lovers together forever in death. No one can interfere with destiny.”

  “I suppose.” Belinda smiles, a drop of sadness in her eyes then leaves, vanishing into the darkness.

  Vryke had taken his time, waiting before following her. The theater had been empty. Just the two of them. The movie’s title filled his laptop screen. Vryke had waited until the film began before taking a seat behind her without making a sound. Here now was a rear profile of Belinda weeping, her glistening face bathed in screen light, now a few seconds of Vryke’s face, then a metallic flash, swift and terrible.

  You were The One, Belinda. Destined to share eternity with me. But you betrayed me with a lie. Now you are alone forever. A hopeless romantic. A failed candidate. At least I gave you what you wanted. I ended your pain. Vryke closed the file and added it to the others.

  He had been sloppy with Belinda. His condition was weakening his thinking. Immediately after their meeting in the theatre, Vryke checked out of his hotel to catch the next flight to anywhere. Leave as fast as possible. He had arrived at the airport, scanned the list of departures. Calgary. He had just enough time to purchase a full-fare ticket and board a direct flight. Good. It was his pattern to never return the same way he departed. Within several hours of meeting Belinda Holcomb, Vryke had been two time zones and half a continent away, driving a rented midsize sedan west toward the Rocky Mountains to Banff, where blending in with tourists from around the world would be easy. But the clock was ticking on him.

  It was critical he return to the United States. He must slip back into America undetected. He had been remiss, was surely leaving a clear trail. He had always operated on the assumption that he had overlooked something. Because he was dying, he was fallible. But he knew that he was so far ahead of any police agency that he need not draw fire by intruding on their computer systems. As tempting as it would be, it would be a fatal move, for it would attract attention, more than he could handle right now. Tonight’s convulsive event had underscored that. Once more, he had felt death’s hot breath as its jaws opened to take him.

  He had to get back to the U.S. safely. Vryke switched on the desk lamp to study his map. He had a plan. It was workable. He studied the sports and travel sections of the Vancouver newspapers, then his maps. He conducted more research on-line. If he took his time driving through the mountains to Vancouver, his plan would work and he would be back in the U.S. without a hitch. Forgiveness awaited him there.

  She awaited to wash away his sins, purify his soul and accompany him into immortality.

  Pure love can defeat any darkness.

  Vryke clicked on the file containing the false ones. So many. He looked at their names, remembering their meetings, their faces, their eyes, and their lies. Vryke gazed to the night sky at the glittering constellations suspended over the mountains, adrenaline surging through him in the aftershock of his seizure.

  A vision was coming.

  His mind became a hallucinatory maelstrom. Their faces. The vision was coming. Record it. Capture the vision. They must know. He reached for his leather bag, his anatomy dissecting kit, selecting the razor scalpel, slicing the fingertips of his right hand, his blood dripping as he raised his hand to the wall. Capture the vision. Show them your destiny. All those lonely lives lived in vain. Alas, now each of them would serve as the stars Vryke needed to write his eternal message in the heavens. Soon, very soon, every human being on earth would know his name.

  Forever.

  FORTY

  In his San Francisco apartment, Wyatt did not hear the staccato hip-hop bass throbbing from the low riders prowling the Mission as
night fell.

  Laboring on his police laptop, he was consumed by Iris Wood’s case, dissecting her Internet account information which he had obtained from her ISP. But it seemed everything he had tried over the last few days had dead-ended. At this point Wyatt was looking for any trace of communication in which someone tried to lure Iris Wood into a meeting, or a telephone call, or into revealing something personal, like a home or work address, financial information, anything threatening, harassing, an invitation to exchange graphic photographs or violent fantasies, or to have a sexual encounter. So far, Wyatt had found nothing like that in Iris Wood’s travels.

  What if our guy was smarter than your garden-variety head case?

  She had employed scores of user names. He was finding a new one with every new site she had visited. He couldn’t be sure he had all of them. The muscles in his neck were knotted now. His eyes were sore.

  Was he even certain her killer was someone she had met on-line?

  No.

  The whole Internet angle was just another line of investigation. But until he had learned more about the on-line life Iris Wood had lived, or until Sydowski collared her killer, Wyatt could not let them rule it out. Or let Sydowski get in his way if he managed to pull something significant from her computer. Especially after her home system had wiped out his disk. What was up with that? He was counting on Gricks at the Livermore Lab. Maybe the old hippie would enlighten him on how to pursue the case, or give him some ideas on how to have another go at Iris Wood’s PC. Maybe he should just ship it off to CART in San Diego, let the FBI perform surgery on the thing. Man, he could sure use some sort of lead on this.

  At least Lieutenant Gonzales was keeping an open mind about it, telling Wyatt to keep going. Find whatever he could find. Or rule out what he could rule out. Sydowski seemed indifferent. Playing the hard-ass because of Reggie.

  Wyatt got up, pulled a beer from his refrigerator, plopped on his sofa, catching the sirens and salsa music riding through the window on the cool breezes, remembering gunshots, the woman, the kid, Reggie shouting.

  He had to make it right with Reggie. If it was the last thing he did.

  Wyatt realized that it was the first time since the shooting that he had allowed that thought into his mind. Now he actually believed he was going to do it, actually felt strong enough to do it. Where was that coming from?

  Olivia. It had to be her. The other night when she took his hand, after he had told her everything, it had felt right. After he put his cards on the table, laid out his sorry situation, she had told him, “I believe you”.

  Wyatt swallowed some beer, almost smiling at the feeling that maybe Olivia had just lowered him a ladder so he could climb out of his dark pit. Boy, things had changed. Hey, he was going to her place for dinner --

  Knocking on the door. Wyatt’s eyes went to his gun in a lockbox on a dresser shelf. More knocking.

  “Ben?” The male voice was familiar.

  “Who is it?”

  “Reed. Tom Reed.”

  Wyatt snapped the locks, half opening the door. “Why are you here?”

  “May I come in?”

  Wyatt glanced over Reed’s shoulder at the cars on the street.

  “I came alone, Ben, and in my own car. No billboards.”

  “What do you want?”

  “A few minutes to talk.”

  “About?”

  “Want to do this here, or can I come in? You might find this useful.”

  Reed had treated him fairly in the Star’s reporting of Reggie’s case. Then there was that one night, after his fiancée had moved out. Wyatt was drunk in some Tenderloin hellhole. Reed was there meeting some sleazoid source, had spotted Wyatt, seen what was happening. Reed had taken him out of the bar before damage was done. Taken him back to his apartment so he could sleep it off.

  Wyatt figured he owed him for saving his ass that night. He surrendered the door. “Fine. Help yourself to a cold beer.”

  Reed took a soda from the fridge, popping the top, turning a kitchen chair backward, making an obvious gesture of noticing Wyatt’s laptop.

  “Did I interrupt some computer work there, Ben?”

  “No. Why are you here?” Wyatt said from the sofa.

  “Iris Wood. You’re on her case.”

  “I am a member of the team on her case. I know nothing, and you know I don’t leak. It’s Sydowski’s murder. He’ll tell you more about it than he’ll tell me and you know why.”

  “I figured as much. Friends of mine at the Hall tell me he’s keeping you away from the action.”

  “Everybody has their assignments. It all goes on a need-to-know basis. I can’t tell you anything.”

  “No, pal, I’m going to tell you something, Maybe you know it, maybe you don’t, okay?”

  “If it makes your day, go ahead.”

  “Did you know Walt is requesting details on similar unsolved homicides across the country? To me it looks like a traveler with a potentially huge body count. I can see by your eyes that he didn’t tell you because you’re working on that ‘need-to-know’ basis.”

  “Where are you getting this?”

  “I made a lot of calls. Lots of ’em. I don’t need Sydowski’s permission.” Reed took a big swallow of soda. “I’m lucky that way.”

  “It’s routine to look for common factors in similar unsolveds. Make queries. What you’re telling me is standard.”

  “Sure. Right. Uh-huh. Talk to Bill Sample.”

  “Why? Who’s he?”

  “Phoenix homicide. The primary on an unsolved there. Elinor Snell, aged thirty-three, worked as a tax clerk for the state. Single, lonely. Found several months ago in the trunk of her car in a Phoenix mall parking lot. The lid opened, as if she were on display. From what I understand, Elinor Snell could have been Iris Wood’s sister, lived the same kind of life, died the same kind of death. Loved her computer. Get where I’m going, Ben?”

  “You talk to Sample?”

  “Not yet.”

  “So where you getting this?”

  “You know I don’t give up sources. I made a lot of calls and have found a lot of fairly recent unsolved homicides similar to Iris Wood’s.” Reed pulled his notebook from his rear pocket, flipped through pages, reading. “Jen Schnieder in Dallas, Clay Farrell is the detective on her murder. Anita Erwin in Detroit, Lupe Vargas in Miami, Amy Finch in Cincinnati, Kathy Soran in Chicago, a few more.”

  “So why are you telling me this, Reed?”

  “I’ve poked around. I think Sydowski’s looking for something in most of these cases. You may know this, but I suspect he’s got some key hold-back that could be a common denominator. You’re a detective, you know what I’m talking about.”

  “I don’t. Not specifically. It’s routine to compare. So again, why are you telling me this?”

  “Here’s my theory. Iris Wood’s murder is just too bizarre to be a stand-alone homicide. Her killer’s out there. He’s smart. He could be a cop, ex-cop, or poses as a cop. Whatever. I’m convinced there is something huge at work here. I’ve done some preliminary checking with a lot of sources across the country. I’m going to start digging, really digging. And if anyone wanted to help me further, well, I’d be willing to trade information they can’t get, or might not be assigned to pursue.”

  Wyatt swallowed some beer. His eyes never leaving Reed’s.

  “Sooner or later, some reporter somewhere is going to bust this story wide open.”

  “And it just has to be you, Reed?”

  “This story is already costing me. My wife is at the end of her rope with me. Zach, our son, has got some sort of allergy and the doctors can’t tell us what it is. It’s creating some stress at home. She wants me to quit the paper. I just can’t. My editor is Clyde Brader, remember him?”

  “Asshole.”

  “Always been my rival. Never got over my Pulitzer nomination. Now he’s my boss. Wants the pleasure of seeing me fail so he can fire me.”

  “So what are you trying to t
ell me, Reed, this is all personal for you?”

  “Iris Wood’s murder is my story. I am paying heavily for it and I ain’t gonna lose it. I gotta go. ” Reed snapped a page from his notebook listing the victims, placed it on Wyatt’s kitchen table, then went to the door. “Like I said, I’m willing to trade, or ‘discuss theories’. Thanks for hearing me out, Ben. See you around.”

  After Reed left, Wyatt studied the names on the torn strip of lined reporter’s notebook paper. They were printed in Reed’s neat script. Wyatt finished his beer and went on-line to the newspapers and information data banks, pulling up what public information he could on the cases. All were single women who lived quiet lives. All their bodies had been displayed in some fashion -- mannequin factory, open trunk, abandoned meat-processing plant. In some cases, the women were described as homebodies who spent time on-line. Wyatt thought. Was Sydowski comparing something? Did he have something?

  Reed’s list was a good list. It gave him something to work with. More than what Sydowski had given him. The cases on it fit with what happened to Iris Wood. It seemed Reed was on to something, had the inside track. Wyatt looked at the Phoenix case. Detective Bill Sample’s name and telephone number were listed next to Elinor Snell.

  Should he call him?

  No. He had no authority. What if Sydowski was working a critical hold-back angle and found out? Given that Sydowski already wanted to take his head off, Wyatt thought, calling Phoenix would be an error.

  Wait a minute.

  The articles in the Republic, said Elinor had liked to chat on-line. He could try finding her friends on the Internet. He might be able to find an e-mail address for her. He could throw her e-mail address out there or search for it in some of the places where Iris Wood had traveled. What if Phoenix was doing something, or the FBI, or some other force? He had to be careful. Damned careful.

  Wyatt’s keyboard clicked as he began searching the Internet for a lead, any lead, into the cases of women murdered across the country.