by R. J. Wolf
PAST LIVES
HOTEL CALIFORNIA
BOOK ONE
By RJ WOLF
Copyright © 2018 by RJ Wolf
www.rj-wolf.com
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the expressed written consent of the author.
“And I’d choose you;
In a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality,
I’d find you and I’d choose you”
~Kiersten White~
CHAPTER 1
IT ALL ENDS WHERE IT BEGINS
Rain fell over the Atkins Cemetery as the dark swirls of clouds collected above, like buzzards coming to feast upon the dead. The crowd of doleful dressed attendees didn’t shy from the bulbous tears, they welcomed them, expecting the melancholy shower to wash their sorrows into the muddy earth.
“For as much as it has pleased almighty God,” the priest said as the casket lowered beneath the surface. “To take out of this world the soul of Gloria Valdez, we therefore commit her body to the ground. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust…”
Cries of misery sounded one by one, like the keys of a broken piano. The grief-stricken congregation swayed with the growling wind as the storm brewing above them strummed the music of their broken hearts.
The priest continued his eulogy, lamenting the dearly departed. Compliments were always best paid in passing. His words drifted across the cemetery until they fell on a lonely plot surrounded by dying oak trees and dried moss.
Here, there was no crowd, no loved ones to mourn the passing soul. Not even a headstone marked the barren patch of land.
It was a lonely place, a place devoid of life where grass didn’t even grow. Not in four years as much as a blade saw fit to stretch its roots into the forsaken space. It was a place for death.
The memory of what happened faded long ago and the fate of those left to mourn proved worse than the tragedy itself. So, now the land was left barren.
As the rain pounded the soil, turning the ground to a thick sludge, something moved from underneath. First, it was nothing more than a light thumping, possibly a worm or some other tiny creature, craving the air. But it grew stronger and stronger.
The dirt pulsed like the ground had a heartbeat, then suddenly a flurry of fingers broke through, stretching to the sky as the rain, washed years of dirt from the filthy skin. An angry cry bellowed from the deep, a painful howl, the sound of heartbreak or a soul tearing apart. Hell always cried when it had to give one back.
After that came an arm, then a head. Then the entire torso of a man that no longer had a place in the land of the living.
The funeral across the cemetery was concluding. People rushed to their cars, fleeing the monsoon as the cloud of depression lifted and their senses prevailed. No one noticed the naked man burrowing out of the ground like he’d been birthed from the Earth herself. No one noticed the shadows that followed him as he clawed his way across the lawn.
“Argh,” the man grumbled as the water pelted his bare skin.
He looked around in a haze, his head swimming in confusion, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Shivering, he pushed onto all fours and crawled toward a massive oak tree that lumbered a few yards away.
Muffled voices carried across the wind and the man stared toward the funeral. A flock of crow-colored figures dispersed and headed off in various directions, running back to unfulfilled lives and the blindness that kept them happy.
“H—he-help,” the man croaked in a voice he didn’t recognize.
He stretched out his hand then fell forward onto his face. Muddy water splashed all around him, the icy chill shocking his system into panic. He pushed up onto trembling arms, but they failed him, and he found himself laying in the mud again.
He stayed there for a while, not knowing who or where he was. He couldn’t remember his name or how he’d come to crawl out of an unmarked grave in the first place. All he knew was the feeling of not belonging.
Pain inked through his veins and a voice inside his head called for him to come back home. Fragmented memories of molten lava and flames that moved like they had a mind clouded his head. They reached out for him with their sticky fingers, eager to take hold of his flesh once more.
“No!” he groaned.
As the last of the funeral procession left, the man began to drag his body across the ground toward an alley. Stumbling to his feet, he clumsily made his way onto the pavement. Broken glass stabbed into his toes, leaving a bloody trail from the cemetery.
Rows of derelict buildings lined the road. Faded brick crumbled from the walls and piles of rotten wood hid rats and roaches from view. The air was stale, but the smell of piss and liquor still lingered like the ghost of last night.
The man frowned then headed for an empty warehouse with boarded windows and rust covered panels. Holes littered the decaying metal like swiss cheese, but the structure seemed solid and a welcomed reprieve from the rain.
Staggering, he fell into the door then pulled back on the handle. The door rattled within the frame, but didn’t move. He pulled harder, but the deadbolt did its job and after three more attempts, he gave up.
Pausing, he turned his head and stared back to the cemetery. He could feel something there, watching him from the shadows. A bolt of lightning flashed, and thunder rattled across the sky, carrying with it an ungodly voice.
“We have her. What was once yours is ours forever,” the demonic growl echoed across the wind, punctuating each word with the sky’s crackling barrage.
Covering his ears, the man fell to the ground, but the voice continued. He could hear it everywhere, in the wind, in the thunder, even inside of his head.
“You can never leave us,” the voice droned. “You belong to us.”
“No!” the man shouted. “Leave me alone!”
Scampering around the building, he found a window and bashed his elbow into the glass. He grabbed a flattened cardboard box from the ground and laid it across the sill then clambered inside. Bits of jagged shards dug into his legs, carving through the box and leaving the walls splattered in blood.
In a clump, he fell to the ground as another bolt of lightning rippled through the sky. Shivering, he curled into a soaking wet ball. His body ached like he’d never known pain before. Every muscle, every bone roared in agony.
The rain pounded the warehouse and the wind whistled through the alley outside, carrying faint whispers that slowly faded into nothing. Every screech sounded like death scraping its fingers along the walls, trying to break in and pull the man back to the depths.
“No…stay away. Please stay away,” he mumbled under his breath as he lay in a puddle of water, leaking his life onto the floor.
CHAPTER 2
WELCOME BACK
“Can’t believe you let him off,” Officer Simpson said with a laugh.
“I had to,” Officer Hardwick replied. “The guy had been sucking face with a man all night, it was the least I could do.”
They both chuckled then dropped their voices to a whisper as the
y neared the abandoned warehouse. The neighboring streets of Atkins Cemetery were known for their homeless population, but throughout the police department it was an area to be avoided.
Hardwick was a ten-year veteran of the force. He had the red eyes and gray hair to prove it. After two failed marriages, three kids, a dog and one and a half mortgages, he wasn’t much for heavy lifting. The life of a beat cop suited him just fine. He never took his work home and was always around opportunities to stash a few extra dollars in his pocket.
Simpson was the polar opposite. He’d only been with the department for one year and his clean, angled face and soft blue eyes had earned him the nickname, Runway. He was an ambitious cop and had just thrown his hat in for detective. If he got the job he planned to propose to his long-time girlfriend, even though Hardwick spent his time trying to talk him out of it.
“Why do they monitor this shithole anyway?” Hardwick asked. “This place gives me the creeps.”
“Belongs to some European family. All I know is they’re freaking loaded, but don’t ever come around here. They own that cemetery too.”
“What are you some kind of historian?” Hardwick asked with a laugh.
“Nah, just like to be informed is all.”
“Well let’s inform the hell out of here. Say we checked it out and there was nothing. Who’s gonna know?”
Simpson considered him for a moment. He didn’t like the vibe he was getting either, but he didn’t want anything to jeopardize his chances of making detective. He already caught enough flack as it was, but Hardwick was right. Who would know?
Sighing, he turned and headed to the car, but stopped when he caught something out of the corner of his eye. Pausing, he turned around and took a step back. Splattered across the wall were streaks of blood and what looked like a hand print. Shards of broken glass were scattered on the ground. Something happened there.
“I got blood,” he whispered then pulled his pistol out of its holster.
Hardwick frowned then did the same and together they edged closer to the building. Simpson moved cautiously, his heart was thumping in his chest and his footsteps boomed in his ear like a stereo.
“I told you we should’ve left,” Hardwick complained. “You young guys are always looking for trouble.”
Simpson gave him a sideways glance then with a deep breath, leaned closer to the window and peeked inside. He saw the homeless man lying on the floor. His naked body was sprawled across the concrete, his legs caked in dirt and dried blood.
“Jesus,” Hardwick griped as he looked over Simpson’s shoulder. “What was this guy thinking?”
Simpson shrugged and made his way to the door. He pulled at it a few times then huffed. “Bolted shut.”
Hardwick nodded then brought his boot crashing down near the edge of the frame. Wood splintered from the sides and the door swung open and slammed into the wall behind it.
“Check the back,” Hardwick ordered.
Simpson acknowledged him then headed straight toward the rear of the building, while Hardwick crept to the right. He kept his head on a swivel and his ears strained for the faintest of sounds.
Inside of the warehouse was dark and the air was musky and stale from decades of abandonment. The light from the broken window only cut so far into the gloom before being swallowed into nothing.
Simpson clicked on his flashlight and moved silently through the dank shadows. A series of half-built partitions arranged like unfinished offices stood in the center of the floor in front of him. The rest of the building was barren except a few broken chairs and candy wrappers, and the naked man lying on the ground.
“Clear,” Simpson called and started back toward Hardwick.
He was standing over the homeless man with a disgusted look on his face. He’d seen enough junkies to recognize the signs and had little patience for their plight.
“Buddy. Time to get up buddy, this ain’t your place,” Hardwick called out and kicked him in the leg.
The man swiped at him and grumbled then rolled back to his side. Hardwick grinned.
“These druggies, they get their fix and fall asleep anywhere,” he said. “I had one that got all high and crawled into a woman’s car at the grocery store.” He kicked him again with more force. “Go grab that emergency blanket from the car. I don’t want this thing on my seats.”
Simpson ran outside, and Hardwick turned his attention back to the naked vagrant. He kicked him in the stomach then placed his boot on his neck. The man gagged then gripped Hardwick’s shoe.
“Listen scumbag, you throw up, piss…hell you even sneeze in my patrol car and you won’t even make it off this street. You understand?”
The man nodded eagerly, his eyes bulging as he struggled for air. Hardwick glared at him then removed his foot and took a step back.
“Get up!” he shouted.
The man gulped like a dying fish then coughed. “Is it still out there?” he croaked.
“What?”
“It was out there. Out there waiting for me?”
“You must’ve found some good stuff huh? Shane and his boys still dealing around here? You tell me where you got the dope and I’ll let you get another hit before I shake em down. Fair deal?”
“Got the blanket,” Simpson called from the door.
“Alright…might not need it after all. Think we’re gonna cut this one loose,” Hardwick replied and winked at the man as he shivered and covered himself with his hands.
“Don’t think so,” Simpson said. “Got a call from the sergeant, guess they had something valuable in here. They want us to bring him down for questioning.”
“What? How the hell did they know we had somebody?”
“No clue, but Sarge said to bring him down right way.”
Hardwick grumbled and bit the inside of his cheek. Fuming, he grabbed the blanket from Simpson and threw it on the ground next to dirt-covered man.
“Put it on and like I said, don’t you touch my damn seats.”
~***~
The 7th Precinct in New York was housed in a massive brick building that towered for decades in Manhattan’s lower east side. It was once used as a church and spill over for the Jewish, all-girls school next door. The building was repurposed in the early 70s, along with several other buildings when the city passed sweeping appropriation laws.
The precinct was known for having a top-notch outreach program that kept its many tentacles entangled in the neighborhood. After a rash of missing persons reports, the powers that be created a specialized task force, with the sole purpose of community involvement. To the public, it was a welcomed gesture of goodwill, but in the shadows, there was a much darker motive.
Hardwick pulled up to the side of the building and threw the car in park. He glanced over his shoulder into the back seat and grumbled.
“Simpson, get this idiot out of my car,” he ordered.
The broken drifter was stretched out across the backseat. His head was buried underneath a blanket and his sliced-up legs were slowly oozing blood into the back of the patrol car. Hardwick stared at him for a moment then ground his teeth and stormed off.
Officers buzzed in and out of the building in a non-stop stream of traffic. This was where the worst of society collided with the law, where retribution and justice were sought, but they were seldom ever found.
Pushing the naked man in front of him, Simpson followed Hardwick through the double doors and into the precinct. The place smelled like cigarettes and cleaning supplies with a hint of onions, thanks to the hotdog cart that was permanently parked outside. A dim yellow light glowed in the lobby and a chorus of ringing phones and angry voices filled the air.
The precinct needed an upgrade, but the best they could hope for was that someone cleaned the filthy, beige linoleum floor. It’d seen enough blood for a lifetime and held secrets that belonged buried at the bottom of the ocean.
“Hey, Runway,” an officer called as he passed Simpson. “I see you finally found your dad huh?”<
br />
“Eat me,” Simpson replied.
He flipped his middle finger then headed for the front desk where a short, pudgy man with a scruffy face sat. He eyed them skeptically behind a pair of thick glasses as he licked ketchup off his fingers.
“Sarge,” Hardwick called out. “What’s going on?”
“Who the hell is the naked guy in my lobby, Hardwick?” the sergeant shouted.
“You told us to bring him in…guy from the warehouse break in.”
“Jesus, put some clothes on him.” The sergeant walked around the side, stopping near the wall and scratching his head. “Grab some clothes from the drunk tank and take him to interview room three.”
Hardwick flicked his hand and Simpson obediently headed off to grab clothes. Hardwick glanced back at the homeless man for a moment then leaned into the sergeant’s ear.
“What the hell is this? What’s going on?”
“Don’t know what you got yourself into this time, but the CO from community affairs is on the way down,” the sergeant replied then started to walk off.
“What?”
“Clothes and room three, Hardwick,” he yelled as he disappeared around the corner.
Hardwick fumed and shook his head. Still grumbling under his breath, he grabbed the man and pulled him toward the back. Simpson trotted behind them, clutching a pair of faded jeans and a neon green t-shirt.
“Best I could find,” Simpson said and held the clothes up. “Figured beggars can’t be choosers.”
Hardwick opened the door to the interview room and shoved the man inside. “I’m gonna take the cuffs off. You try something stupid and I’m gonna shoot you…then Simpson’s gonna shoot you. You understand?”
“Ye…ye-yes,” the man mumbled in a frightened tone.
Hardwick removed the handcuffs and Simpson shoved the mismatched clothes into the man’s arms.
“Put those on,” Hardwick ordered. “And you can keep the damn blanket. Somebody will be in soon.” With that, he shut the door and started to walk off.