by Jon F. Merz
"And only now you've decided to confront me? Your logic is full of holes."
"Is it? We can place you in the countries at the times of all the killings. You've never married, never even had a lady friend. Your lover is far too jealous for such earthly bindings."
Harlan stepped across the room. Blake pulled a small pistol out of his smoking jacket.
"I wouldn't. I've waited far too long and I'm tired of this chase."
Harlan stopped. "You did this to me, you know. You and your so-called superiors at SIS. I never knew I had this evil within me. Never knew what lurked within the bowels of my soul, just waiting for a chance to be released. I've got you to thank for that."
"You can't pretend you don't enjoy it, Krischkov. I've seen your handiwork. It's far too precise to have been the deranged habits of a man reluctantly possessed. You love the feel of your knives as they bite into the warm flesh, the ooze of blood and body fluids that leap out of the orifices of your victims. You killed last Saturday, didn't you? A weekend in Paris, wasn't it? Just over the channel for a few days. Just long enough to slice that poor woman to ribbons. Age certainly hasn't robbed you of your strength, has it?"
Harlan smiled. "I manage to keep fit."
"I'll bet. Unfortunately, your time is over."
Harlan edged closer. Blake pulled the hammer back on the revolver.
"I won't warn you again, Krischkov. Stay still."
"And what," said Harlan. "You'll have me stand trial for the murders? That'd compromise your whole operation. The SIS would be disgraced by the scandal. You can't do that. They'd never let you." He smiled. "But me? I can kill as often as I like. I should have killed you a long time ago."
"But you didn't."
Harlan withdrew his hand from his coat pocket. He held a slim stiletto. "I couldn't resist the urge to see my handler again. When you contacted me, I never suspected you'd solved the equation. I didn't give you enough credit it seems. That's my fault. But it can be rectified."
Blake shook his head. "No. It cannot." He leveled the pistol on Harlan even as the aging reporter launched himself at Blake. The report exploded across the room and the sharp smell of gunpowder and cordite stained the air as the bullet smacked into Harlan's head.
Blake sidestepped the falling body and knelt close to Harlan's still body. He placed the barrel of the revolver against Harlan's temple and fired again.
The body jerked once and then lay still. Blake stood and let the pistol fall by his side, smoke still trailing from the barrel. He walked over to the phone and lifted the receiver, dialing the number.
When the line picked up, he said simply. "It's done." And then replaced the receiver.
Outside, the rain continued to fall and the branches continued to scrape across the panes of glass. Blake looked out into the stormy night, aware of the approaching motor cars. They'd been waiting for his call.
He turned away from the window and looked at the body staining his carpets. The body of Jack the Ripper. Milos Krischkov. Jeffrey Harlan. One in the same. All the killer Blake had helped create. His responsibility. The loose end finally tied up.
"It's over now," said Blake. Then he placed the barrel of the revolver in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
Inside the study, one final gunshot rang out on that rainy January night in London. And then everything was still.
Very still indeed.
Of Human Chemistry
Never published, but I still think it raises some intriguing points and questions about how much we’re often willing to subject ourselves to in the search for supposed happiness. I’m still not sure if the ending works on this one, but here it is…
It was raining again when Harrison pulled the sleek new Volvo 850 around into the drive. Overhead, rain clouds loomed above the spires of the mansion like rolling ebony balls of wet cotton. Harrison peered out of the windshield and frowned. He'd be soaked the moment he made for the door.
With little choice, Harrison yanked the door release and ran, his polished loafers squishing and stomping through muddy rain puddles until he clambered up the front steps and rapped twice on the heavy oak door.
It took three minutes for the butler to arrive and crack the door open. "Yes?"
"Kendrick, it's me, Harrison, open the door, will you? It's a minging soak fest out here."
Kendrick disappeared as the door closed and then reopened. Kendrick stood to one side. "Mr. Harrison, sir, always so nice to see you. Please do come in."
Harrison stepped through the doorway and shook himself like a dog, flinging pellets of rain onto the Persian carpets. He ran his hand through the damp mop of brown hair on his head and drew the hand down over his wet face. "Thanks, Kendrick, always a kick to see you as well."
Kendrick helped Harrison with his coat. "And how is London, sir?"
"Still standing," said Harrison. "Now, what's this all about?"
"Sir?"
"The phone call, Kendrick. I received a call telling me to be here tonight. I assumed it was your voice on the machine. Certainly sounded like you."
Kendrick straightened himself up to his full six feet. "You must have been mistaken, sir. I assure you I have not placed such a phone call."
Harrison sighed. "Right. Well, then, where's my brother? Might as well turn this jaunt into a visit if I'm here already, eh?"
"I believe, sir, your brother is in the laboratory."
"Same as always." Harrison shook his head. "Does he ever make time for scoff?"
"'Scoff', sir?" Kendrick looked annoyed.
"It's food, you old scoundrel. C'mon, Kendrick, loosen up a tad, will you? Honestly, you speak such proper English it gets stuffy."
"Sir, your brother did not hire me to waltz about the manor sounding like a cockneyed carpenter. He hired me as much for my intellect and proper upbringing as he did-"
"Your capacity to open doors, yes," said Harrison, "I'm sure."
Kendrick bristled under the remark but said nothing more. Harrison looked at him. "Right, I'll just zip down and see him then."
Harrison crossed the main hallway and stopped beside a large grandfather clock. He pushed a small panel of wood on the side and the wall before him slid to the left, permitting passage down a cleverly disguised staircase. Stone steps lead downstairs in a spiraling descent that bore Harrison deep into the bowels of a cold, stone basement.
At the bottom of the stairs, another door barred his way. Harrison rapped on it twice and there was a muffled sound from beyond, a pause, and then what sounded like scurrying, before the door swung open.
Harrison stared into the face of his brother Ian and frowned. Ian, older than Harrison by ten years, looked haggard and worn, his receding hairline a mass of tiny tangles. Ian's white lab coat hung off his wiry frame and looked like it could swallow him whole.
"Jesus Christ, Ian."
Ian smiled. "Harrison. So good of you to come."
"That was your voice on my machine? My God, man, it sounded nothing like you. I thought it was Kendrick."
"Kendrick has no knowledge of this," said Ian. "It's better that way. Trust me." He stepped aside. "Do come in."
Harrison crossed the threshold into the dimly lit laboratory and shivered once. "Bloody cold in here. Haven't you any heat?"
Ian smiled. "Sorry. I tend to forget the small things."
"Like eating," said Harrison. "My God , Ian, you look a sight. When's the last time you took some food?"
"Yesterday, I think." Ian waved his hands. "That's not important, though."
"Not import-" Harrison stopped himself. "Ian, what's so dreadfully urgent about me coming down here on the worst night of the year? Honestly, I nearly died twice with the rain and washed out roads. It's awful out there."
"Is it?" Ian smiled again. "I haven't been keeping abreast much of what's going on outside. My time has been spent almost wholly inside these four walls."
Harrison nodded. "Looks like you could do with a spot of sun as well. Honestly, you look half-dead."
Ian smiled. "I know."
"For God's sakes, Ian, it's not a compliment, is it? You need to get out of this laboratory. It's become your obsession. Ever since-
Ian studied him. "Since Marta died?" He sighed. "Perhaps it has.But if nothing else in my life, the wealth our parents left us has allowed me to continue my studies without the harassment of having to work for a living."
Harrison sighed. "Some people actually believe work can be good for the soul, Ian. You might give it a try."
Ian shook his head. "No. Not now. Not when I'm so close."
"To what?"
"The greatest scientific achievement in the history of the world."
Harrison frowned. "Really."
"I loved Marta, you know."
"Of course, you did," said Harrison. "It was rather obvious. After all, she was the only person who could ever pry you from your work long enough to make you happy. You were marvelous together. Her death was as much a shame as it was a tragedy."
Ian cocked an eyebrow. "A tad redundant, Harrison."
"Sorry, just trying to make sure it was well-covered with sentiment."
"Point taken. Regardless, she's gone. My life has become an empty vacuous hole. And, until recently, there seemed little point to my continued existence. After all, I reasoned that life without love is hardly a life at all. Wouldn't you say?"
Harrison shrugged. "Perhaps."
"Well, honestly, Harrison, admit it: given the choice between wealth and love, which would you choose?"
Harrison smiled. "Afraid I'd disappoint you, there, brother. I need my fast cars. Love I can do without."
"You always were the contrarian," said Ian. "But speaking for myself and ninety-nine percent of the rest of the world's population, I think love would be the obvious choice."
"So, you've gone and discovered how to fabricate love, is that it?"
"Nothing quite so trivial-sounding," said Ian. "But I have managed to isolate the chemical that stimulates the emotion of love one human being has for another. It's a chemical compound, derived from the neurological receptors at the base of the cerebral cortex. Replicated in the laboratory and then injected into the bloodstream, the compound can produce the same euphoria love does."
"And what of all the down-sides that being in love brings on? The fights, the compromises, the bad sex, the awkwardness and insecurities. Does it have all that as well?"
Ian smiled. "Precisely what I've been trying to remove out of the experience." He glanced at his watch. "I've fallen in love exactly twelve times over the past ten days. And each time has been better than the last."
Harrison frowned. "Seems like you've merely perfected some sort of sexual drug, Ian. Pardon me for reducing it to such simple terms."
Ian waved him off. "Your usual penchant for doing so doesn't disturb me as much as your failure to fully appreciate the effects a discovery like this could have for people. Imagine how many people would feel like fighting or waging war if they were giddy as schoolboys with their first crush. How many acts of violence do you think would happen if more people were inclined to use the compound to rid themselves of anger, fear, and frustration? And for those people who never had luck in love, the compound could provide them with a means of escape."
"Is it addictive?"
Ian looked at him. "Pardon?"
"Addictive," said Harrison. "You said it was a chemical compound taken from the brain. Is it addictive?"
"Well, not that I've seen thus far, no."
Harrison shook his head. "Not very convincing. Let me ask you this: do you look forward to going back under the chemical? Was it really necessary to take it twelve times?"
"Well, scientific pursuit has always consumed me."
"And did scientific pursuit make you shoot up twelve times?"
"'Shoot-up?'" Ian shook his head. "For God's sakes, Harrison don't denigrate the project like that. Honestly, you make me sound like some trumped up Amsterdam teenager who's just tried heroin. It's not the same."
Harrison frowned. "If you say so."
"I do," said Ian. "Of course, you've always been the skeptic. Why not try it and see?"
Harrison laughed. "You can't be serious."
"Absolutely so," said Ian. "Besides, it would give me the opportunity to test the serum on an objective, and if I might add, terribly skeptical, party such as yourself. It would help my research tremendously, I think."
"I've never been too keen about human guinea pigs," said Harrison. "I don't think it's such a good idea."
Ian gave a slight sneer. "Really? But you've only just gone and ridiculed my research. I should think you'd be sporting enough to test your own assumptions."
Harrison considered this. "Let's say I do agree to have an injection, what are you going to do for me?"
Ian laughed. "What would you have me do?"
"Let's try dinner for starters, all right?"
Ian nodded. "Very well. We can discuss my research while we eat."
"I thought Kendrick wasn't to know about any of this."
Ian shrugged. "If things go as I expect them to, it won't matter. Very soon everyone will know about it. Come let's eat."
***
Kendrick served them in the main dining room, a great room the size of a conference room at most office buildings and hotels. Ian sat at one end of the sprawling cherry table while Harrison assumed his post at the other end. Fortunately, the acoustics in the room were good and Harrison found he did not have to shout or even raise his voice to be heard.
"How on earth did you stumble across this?"
Ian set his fork down across the fresh quail and red potatoes. "It's been exactly five years since Marta died." He frowned then. "I do so hate that word." He glanced back at Harrison. "As you know, my love for her was boundless. She was quite literally the light to all my nights. When I lost her, I lost myself." He took a forkful of potatoes and continued. "I felt alone in all the world. You were involved in your various businesses and I've never been much for self-pity, so I took refuge in my research.
"Love is such a splendid thing, isn't it?"
Harrison shrugged. "I guess so, but I must confess it's always been a foreign emotion to me."
Ian smiled as the background music, Mozart's Marriage of Figaro Overture, played softly. "Do you like Mozart, Harrison?"
Harrison nodded and took a sip of wine. "Of course. We were brought up on him."
Ian nodded. "I know. But sometimes the things you're brought up on are the first things one rebels against."
"True, but not in this case."
Ian resumed his attack on the quail. "Kendrick gets the quail from a hunter down the road a piece. The chap's in his sixties but his eye's as good as a master sniper."
Harrison watched him gulp down several forkfuls of the bird and then stuff his mouth with potatoes. "At the very least, your research appears to have dulled your previous sense of dining etiquette."
Ian blanched. "Sorry. I guess I am rather hungry." He took another forkful into his mouth, swallowed, and then looked back at Harrison. "So you've never experienced true love, is that right?"
"If that's how you want to phrase it, yes."
Ian smiled. "Excellent. Then tonight, dear brother, you will."
"You're so confident of this," said Harrison. "What if it does not work?"
"It will. It will. Believe me, I've spent the last four and a half years working on this. My reasoning, while perhaps slightly askew, was that if I could replicate the emotion of love, even if it was chemically induced, it might help ease the heartache people felt about losing loved one."
"Like Marta."
Ian nodded. "Yes. And what's more, the chemical could be used to stimulate accelerated healing in hospital patients, perhaps aid in the treatment of cancer and AIDS. Any number of things are possible with this research."
Harrison raised an eyebrow. "Well, perhaps I was a bit hasty in my ridicule. It merely sounded like some sort of fantastic tale out of one of those marvelou
s magazines of days past."
"Indeed. I can see how you might mistake our conversation for something by Poe or even Sir Conan Doyle. The truth of the matter is, however, that it is real. Terribly real. And after your experience, there will be no turning back from greatness."
Harrison let the music prevail for several minutes before clearing his throat again. "Ian, do you suppose there are some things in science we should not research?"
"Such as what?"
Harrison shrugged. "For example, genetic research. The subject of cloning animals and later humans. Does that disturb you? Do you ever think that's tampering with a more divine concept than we need be?"
Ian frowned. "I am limited in my pursuits only by what my mind deems a barrier. I am relatively unburdened by the ideas of religion, although I may be considered somewhat spiritual."
"If you abide by no formal religion then," said Harrison, "what of your spirituality? What does it say about your quests? Are you mucking about where you shouldn't be?"
"Perhaps on some issues I might see a common ground, Harrison, but on the topic of love I am firm. Love is something all humans are entitled to, regardless of their stature in life or their occupation or beliefs. All are entitled to it and so I feel it is my prerogative to do as I see fit in this area."
Harrison nodded. "I figured as much. For myself, I see things differently."
"How?"
"Namely that one can aspire to love, but it is never to be conquered or even mucked about with. It exists as a complete and total entity unto itself. And in much the same way one would never presume to try to replicate the laws of the universe, so too must this concept of controlling love be left alone."
Ian smiled. "Perhaps you say that merely because you have yet to embrace the emotion."
"Perhaps indeed," said Harrison, "but it does not discount my inherent beliefs in that area."