Nocturnal

by Mark Allen

  If Stoker had known the truth of our existence, and had understood what we really are, I can’t help but wonder and ponder one simple question.

  What kind of book would he have written about us then?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The same sunrise that sent the vampire under his covers cast piercing light through the slightly parted curtains of Captain Morris Horn’s tiny bedroom. Horn lay sprawled across the bed on his stomach, legs straight, arms flung out from his thick body. The yellow shafts drifted across the quilt, fingers inching ever closer towards his pug face. He frowned in his sleep and turned his head away.

  At precisely seven o’clock, the alarm clock on the bedside nightstand erupted into infuriating, relentless beeping and chirping. Horn budged, but did not jump. He finally reached out a blind arm. His hand slapped at the nightstand, looking for the snooze button. Not finding it, his bleary eyes opened.

  “Shut the fuck up!” he growled. He brought his clenched fist down on the snooze button hard enough to snap it off and send it flying onto the floor.

  Regretting having to face yet another day, Horn rolled over and swung his legs over the edge. He suddenly found himself in a sitting up. Damn. Fog enshrouded his mind. His head throbbed. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples to no avail.

  Horn had not slept well the night before.

  He had come home to an empty, dark apartment, long after nightfall. Typical. He had swung by the grocery store and had bought one of those pre-cooked chickens in a bag, the kind kept warm in the store by heat lamps near the deli case. The store helpfully placed accompanying items like pre-made mashed potatoes in gray containers, pints of pre-made macaroni and cheese, flavored cornbread stuffing.

  Upon entering, he had turned on the light, then dropped the chicken on the counter. He strode over to his musty living area and dropped the case files of “the Sulu Sea debacle” on his stained, rickety, grimy coffee table. He knew he needed to clean the place top to bottom. But Horn just didn’t give a shit. He had more important things on his mind.

  He stepped into his small, single bedroom, kicking off his uncomfortable black oxfords. They needed polishing. Badly. But that never crossed Horn’s mind. After standing, sitting, and walking all day, his feet hurt, and that’s all he cared about.

  He yanked his tie away from his pinched throat, fumbled with the top button, then made his way down his chest and belly, opening the shirt wide. His dark skin appeared oily black against the pale fabric in the semidarkness. Shrugging his shoulder holster off, he laid it atop the nightstand, then tossed the shirt onto the floor. He pulled his belt out of his waistband, peeled his pants off.

  Standing there in the quiet apartment, alone in his underwear, Horn looked around, wondering how his life had come to... this.

  He’d gained and lost a wife and two children somewhere along the way. Her name was Mandy, short for Amanda. They had two children, Adam, and Abigail. He had been a cop when they’d met, he told himself. She knew that. And he made sure she knew what that meant, that she understood what impact that being a cop – and being married to a cop! - could have on a marriage.

  He had been honest with her from the start. Being a cop – or being a good cop, at least - was not a job, but a lifestyle. And that lifestyle would always have to come first. The stakes of what he did were too high for anything less. Mandy had assured him that she could handle it.

  Mandy had been wrong.

  They had been married about eleven years when things finally came to a grinding halt. Long enough for the marriage to be considered a “long – term marriage” under California divorce law. He knew he would not get away cheap. Even if Mandy was civil and decent, he was going to take a bath in a divorce, and he knew it.

  Things had been going poorly for a long time, but he had never seen fit to take the time and effort to fix it. There was always some scumbag who needed to be caught, convicted, jailed, taken out of societal circulation. There was always a report that needed to be filed. Evidence to be inventoried. Night School to be passed. A Bachelor’s Degree to be obtained. A career to build. Promotions to be made.

  And when it was said and done, Horn had succeeded. He had moved up through the ranks, from Patrolman to Sergeant, then to Detective, Detective Sergeant, Lieutenant, and now Captain. Not bad for a black kid from the wrong side of the tracks in Texas who had landed in San Diego by luck of the draw when he had joined the Marine Corps. But he had been an absentee father, cool and aloof, and had been a neglectful, even uncaring, husband.

  The marriage ended with a whimper, not a roar. No high drama, no screaming, no yelling, no recriminations. No thrown frying pans; no broken dishes. Just one Saturday evening, he was home sitting on the sofa, watching TV, a glass of iced tea in his hand. Mandy had walked into the room, and calmly stated that she wanted a divorce.

  Horn, shocked, turned off the TV. He took a sip of his sweet tea as she stood there, awaiting his response as he turned this over in his head. Mandy stood several feet away, holding her hands nervously in front of her. He realized how much courage she had mustered up to come in here and tell him that.

  Rather than react violently (as she had feared he would), he nodded his head with a long, exhausted sigh. He told her he understood, and that he understood why. When she tried to continue, he cut her off with a wave of his hand. She didn’t need to justify herself. He got it. He promised to do right by her.

  Mandy got the kids, the house. She got child support, and she made sure Horn had liberal visitation. She turned down spousal support. She made more money. In the end, he moved out of the nice neighborhood with the great schools and CCR’s, into the dingy apartment east of downtown he now occupied.

  Had it already been six years?

  Now the kids were both teens, heavily involved in school activities. They rarely had time for him nowadays. Adam was a junior, already thinking about college. With excellent grades and a keen intellect, scholarships from prestigious schools were in the lad’s future. A whiz in science and math, he wanted to study Chemical Engineering.

  Abigail, a sophomore, played violin in the orchestra. Not as academically inclined as her brother, she had middling grades – strictly B’s and C’s with A’s in music. Abigail also played guitar, drums, and keyboards. Hell, she was damned musical prodigy as far as Horn was concerned.

  She must have gotten it from her mother. Horn knew damn well it didn’t come from his side of the family. She jammed with some neighborhood kids in a garage band, and she had many friends. Adam, more introverted, was content to stay home most weekends and read books.

  Mandy had recently made partner in her law firm. Good for her. Corner office, nice view, big pay raise, and now, profit sharing. He suspected she was seeing one of the men there. He knew her well enough to know that little spring in her step when she was sexually satisfied. She had it in the early days of their marriage. But he had not seen that gleam in her eye for a long time. Now it was back. He never pried, and she never volunteered anything.

  He knew the mature, sophisticated thing would be to be happy for her. The best he could manage was to accept it as none of his business.

  Horn opened a top drawer on his scarred, Salvation Army dresser. He pulled out a faded red Hensley shirt and a pair of blue jeans. He grunted a bit as he pulled his new ensemble on, then slipped his dry, cracked feet into a well worn and sublimely comfortable leather loafers.

  Shuffling into his living area, he used the remote to turn on the TV, a nineteen-inch flat screen. He tuned in to the local news. He grabbed a beer from the fridge, then heaved himself onto his sofa, which groaned under his weight. He screwed off the top and took a deep swig.

  The Sulu Sea incident was the top story, but nothing in the report he did not already know. When a commercial break came just twelve minutes in, Horn got up and grabbed the bag of chicken, a roll of paper towels, and sat back down. He sat back down more gingerly this time. He smiled when the couch did not again creak in protest.

 
Leaning forward, he pushed the file folders to the side and placed the bag on the table. He opened the bag and wrenched a leg portion – both thigh and drumstick – off of the roasted bird’s body at the hip. He held it over the bag, letting the juices drip out of the way. Then he bit deeply, rending succulent flesh and savory meat clean off the bone.

  As he ate, he found out the weather was going to be lovely tomorrow in America’s Finest City. After a few days of warmth, the temperatures would drop once more. Typical weather for San Diego this time of year. He zoned out the rest of the newscast, not paying particular attention. It was always the same – after the weather came a station break, sports, and then the fluffy, feel-good human-interest stories.

  Horn consumed the other leg and thigh, the tail, and had started pulling flesh and muscle from the back and breast by the time the newscast ended. In that time, he had finished his first beer, then another one.

  When the newscast ran end credits, Horn turned the TV off, then licked his fingers and wiped his hands one last time. He threw the sticky paper towels in the garbage can at the end of the kitchen counter top. He put the leftover chicken on the top shelf inside his almost empty refrigerator.

  He would be handling documents, photos and reports that likely would be submitted into evidence. He washed his hands at the sink, dried them on a threadbare hand towel he kept stuffed into the door handle of the barely working freezer on his refrigerator. Horn bought the fridge himself when the one that came with the apartment gave out and the manager dragged his feet with a replacement, Horn found it at a Goodwill for sixty bucks. He was certain the damn thing dated back to the 1970’s.

  Rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, he staggered back towards his measly living area. He flicked on another lamp, a tall one that stood like a metal stalk behind the sofa and illuminated from overhead. The bulb inside was of smaller wattage, so a softer ambient light glowed.

  Satisfied he could see without too much eyestrain, Horn sat back down on the sofa. He moved his nearly empty beer bottle away to the far left. He pulled out his new glasses and placed them low on his nose. He tilted his head slightly upwards, and cast his eyes downward, looking down his nose.

  Damn, he thought. I’ve lived long enough to become an old man.

  He placed photos from the scene in a certain geographical order for where on the dock and ship events had transpired. The photos documented the carnage inflicted. And while Horn did not feel bad for them – they had chosen their path in life, after all – he felt a bit horrified at the absolute brutality. What type of monster could do this to other human beings?

  Moving to the preliminary medical reports, he read again and again about the violent causes of death. Disembowelments. Decapitation. Necks snapped. Multiple massive exsanguinations. One guy, Johnny Wolf, had even had his fucking heart cut out – no cut out, but ripped out of his chest, for Christ’s sake! - by some crude weapon or apparatus of unknown origin.

  None of it made sense to Horn. He felt insecure, sailing into uncharted waters on this one.

  Deep down, he knew Downing was a good cop. He was honest, not on the take. Horn respected that. But Downing as a grandstander, and Horn had disdain for that. Downing had been dubbed a Golden Boy by the Department, even before he graduated the Academy. Young, smooth – skinned and handsome, he had been designated by the Powers That Be to be the new Face of the Department. But the kid had bought into the hype just a little too much for Horn’s comfort.

  Horn believed Downing had been promoted too quickly, part of a PR agenda that marginalized the efforts and accomplishments of older, more experienced, less photogenic officers. Downing possessed good instincts and had a solid arrest record and a high conviction ratio. But his youth and lack of experience could be a severe liability in the field. Hell, the kid had managed to blow his cover, alert the bad guys, and nearly get himself killed. He was alive because unknown players had decided to show mercy.

  That’s not inspired investigative police work. That’s just dumb luck.

  The pieces were there, right in front of him. Horn knew it. He just could not make them fit together into sensible answers. Without answers, he could not build a case for prosecution.

  Back to Square One and one hell of a headache. Horn closed the files and shoved them across the table. He tossed his glasses onto the sofa beside him, leaned his head back. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples against the stress. His breathing slowed, but his headache did not dissipate.

  He sat there, feeling like an idiot, knowing he was not going to have any breakthrough tonight. So he hoisted himself up off the sagging sofa, and stumbled to the bathroom.

  Like everything else in his apartment, the bathroom was nothing to write home about. It was utilitarian, not luxurious. Fittings consisted of a chipped porcelain pedestal sink, medicine cabinet with dull mirror, a toilet, and a claw foot tub Horn only used for showers. A pale yellow shower curtain, devoid of any design or decoration, hung from a curved aluminum rail that snaked its way around the ceiling, following the outline of the tub.

  Horn flipped the light on. Glaring light pierced his eyes and skyrocketed his pain. He pulled open the medicine cabinet door, grabbed a bottle of pills he’d been prescribed for these pesky predicaments. He looked at the label just to make sure he was getting the right thing, but he knew he was. The double check was automatic, like muscle memory.

  He pushed down on the top and cracked open the childproof cap, shook two tablets out into his waiting palm. Holding them in place with three fingers, he screwed the cap tight and placed the bottle back on its narrow beveled shelf. He turned the water on, popped the pills into his mouth. He filled a plastic cup with water, took a swallow, then knocked his head back hard as he swallowed again.

  The two pills scraped down the inside of his throat, tasting bitter. Try as he might no to, his entire frame shuddered involuntarily. He gulped again, this time tasting bile. It was ironic. Here he was, a big, tough guy, a Marine and career cop. But a simple thing like taking a pill by mouth always gave him the heebie jeebies.

  Some things you never outgrow.

  He looked at his reflection. How long since he’d cleaned this bathroom, anyway? It didn’t matter. Nothing much mattered. His fate was sealed, he knew it – hell, he accepted it! - and all that mattered was what good he could do in the world. How many bad people he could catch before he retired, or died?

  He turned away from his sad, hanging features: down-turned mouth, red-rimmed eyes. He hit the light off with a down stroke of his hand as he lumbered past the switch. Careening past the useless living room, Horn staggered into his bedroom and threw himself across the bed. He fell flat across the sheets and quilt on his stomach, arms stretched outward, legs straight, feet hanging off the edge.

  Horn’s massive frame sagged as his muscles finally uncoiled and relaxed. A faint smile danced briefly across his face just before his eyes closed. He was asleep in less than three minutes.

  And now, here he was, on a Saturday morning, hitting the snooze button, trying to steal an extra nine minutes of blessed sleep.

  Saturday was just another workday for Captain Morris Horn.

  Detective Sergeant Nick Castle rode his meticulously maintained vintage motorcycle up to the Police substation. Moving with fluid grace, he braked to a gentle halt. He rode a cruiser. A heavy bike that hugged the pavement for better traction, a big forest green tank up front, big front light for visibility, and with single leather seat slung low over the massive back tire.

  He killed the engine with a flick of his right thumb on the handlebar control. With an almost involuntary movement of his left foot, he pushed out the kickstand until it snapped into its position of function. He gingerly leaned the big machine to the left until the kickstand pushed downward into place, holding the entire weight of the motorcycle in a delicate balance, keeping it from tipping over and crashing onto the concrete.

  Castle threw his right leg high and wide, rotating on the heel of
his left foot. The leg cleared the seat and swung downward, coming to rest flat on the concrete next to his left. He reached up under his chin with gloved hands, loosening the full-face helmet’s nylon strap. He yanked, pulling the straps through the eyelet and out. He grabbed the helmet below the face shield and lifted up and back, freeing his head.

  His longish dark hair fell back into place. He blinked a bit behind his riding glasses. He bent down with his helmet and secured it by its eyelet into a small locking mechanism located on the side of the bike underneath the left side of the seat.

  Castle stepped back a pace and unzipped his leather jacket. It was still cold, but the early morning sun promised to warm things up. He peeled his gloves off, rolled them tightly in his hands, and shoved them into his side jacket pocket.

  A dented, slate gray unmarked police car rounded the corner. As it approached, Castle heard the engine, and looked over. He saw Horn’s unmistakable face at the wheel. He waited by his custom bike as Horn maneuvered the car towards the slanted parking spaces and pulled into one next to him.

  “Morning, Captain,” Castle greeted as Horn hauled his girth out of the car.

  “Morning,” Horn returned tersely. He grabbed the files he had failed to crack the night before, then locked the car door. “How is it you look so refreshed this early on a Saturday?”

  Castle shrugged. “Clean living, vitamins and exercise,” he said.

  Horn thought about his own health and eating habits. “You might have something there.”

  Castle reached into the custom saddlebags on his bike. He pulled out his copy of the same files Horn possessed. He also pulled out a small, oil-stained bag, filled with an onion bagel and a packet of cream cheese for himself, and two raspberry cheese Danishes for Horn. He held the bag up between them, saying nothing. He swung it gently, side to side.

  Horn’s face cracked into an uncharacteristic grin. “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”