by Rick Murcer
He’d sprinted away like Satan himself had been chasing him, but after two blocks, he’d stopped. He felt good. He felt powerful. He’d struck out against the darkness that promised to swallow him and spit him back out, and he felt . . . incredible. There had been beauty in that act, and he embraced it.
The cops had come to the school, but he hadn’t been questioned. The darling of his South Side high school remained an unfortunate statistic. A cold case never solved.
He didn’t repeat that act—the killing of counterfeit beauty—until nine years later, when he’d deemed it necessary to eliminate a bitch of a boss who could have been Susan’s twin sister.
She possessed the same blond hair and wide, lovely eyes ushering in the same result as they’d talked in the parking garage that hot summer night. He’d snapped her neck, his journey to full self-awareness another step closer to completion. Then four times more in the last eight years.
In each of the last four instances, he had initially only wanted to see if the women were right for him: Miss Perfects. They weren’t. But the process brought him closer to his goal of finding the ultimate woman. Drop-dead perfect was obtainable; he just knew it. She had to be.
Taking one last look out the picture window framing the gentle blue waves of Lake Michigan, he turned toward the door.
He had women to see, in this case Joannie Carmen.
CHAPTER 18
The SUV sped through the red light, avoided the roadblock, and angled toward the long, rectangular dirt pile that served as a makeshift ramp. They were airborne. As they hurtled over the narrow stream that ran right through downtown Chicago and bisected Michigan Avenue, Ellen looked at Oscar. He broke into a wide grin, wider than any clown’s face could depict.
“Some ride, huh, Ellie?”
His mouth grew wider yet.
“What are we doing, Oscar? What does this have to do with getting to the lab?”
“Everything, my queen, everything,” he said as he cackled wildly and glanced in the rearview mirror. His eyes grew larger, and his distorted face took on a ludicrous expression of fear.
“They’re right behind us, Ellie, my queen, right there. I can’t let them catch us. They’ll do terrible things. Unthinkable acts. They might even make me eat red meat. Good God in Heaven! Red meat, Ellie!”
Studying the outside passenger mirror, Ellen saw nothing, just skyscrapers and blue sky. Except it wasn’t daylight. When she looked out through the windshield, she saw the city lights of Chicago . . . and above them, stars. There were so many stars.
“Oscar. I don’t see anything. There’s no one following us.”
“Oh, there is. There is. They can hide from you. They can make themselves invisible. I mean, it’s what they do. It’s part of who they are. Then they get you. Do you understand? Then they get you. But make no mistake, they’re right on our asses. I can feel them. Oh, shit. I can feel them.”
“That’s insane. You can’t ‘feel’ them. If you can’t measure it or see it, it’s not . . . there.”
But he was right. She could feel them, too. Even though she believed only in the impeccable virtues of science, not this extrasensory crap, he was right.
Whoever, or whatever, was chasing them held a malignant force that emitted evil from the very core of its existence, representing everything that was latently horrible in humans.
The subtle secrets that a husband chose not to tell his wife or the woman cheating on her husband, her faithful husband. The people who went to church on Sunday and then, on Monday, blatantly chose the illicit affair or stole from the company that provided their livelihood.
Hating. Stealing. Coveting. Killing.
There were those things, but something more. Something darker, more sinister.
The vehicle jerked suddenly to the right, then careened wildly back to the left, missing a signpost, as Oscar laughed uncontrollably.
“These bastards will never get what they’re after. Never. I know what they want, and they can’t have it. No way in eternity will they get it. I can’t let them realize what they want, ever.”
He sped through another red light before Ellen could respond to his ranting. Ranting that still held some semblance of coherency.
She braced for the impact of the unavoidable crash that would certainly take what was left of her shattered life. Hell, maybe that was for the best. Except it didn’t happen. In fact, for the first time, she realized that there were no other vehicles on Michigan Avenue, coming or going. There was only them and the Chasers. Those hideous, godforsaken Chasers.
She turned to Oscar, his face more distorted than ever. She wondered if his mouth might even curl around to his ears.
“What’s going on, O? Tell me what we’re running from. What are you running from?”
“You don’t know? You don’t get it?”
She shook her head, and her auburn hair whipped past her eyes. Her hair was now much longer than she usually wore it.
“I don’t . . . I don’t understand.”
“It’s all about special, my queen. Special. They want that. They want—”
Before he could finish, he was interrupted by the terrifying sound of rapid gunfire. The rear window exploded into a million fragments. Safety glass hailed though the unit. Then came the smell. The rancid, unforgettable odor of decaying flesh, of death. But whose?
The next moment, she was on the ground outside the overturned SUV, holding Oscar tightly, repeating his name ever so quietly. Ellen was clueless how she’d gotten there and she cared even less.
His hand touched her arm. “I have to tell you, so you know.”
“No, Oscar. Just hang on.”
“Ellie,” he said with a steady, strong voice, “those Chasers weren’t after me. They want you. They want you to be with them, to forsake everything else. I couldn’t let them get to you, to that side of you. You think you can ignore it, but it’s what makes you who you are.”
“What are you talking about? Why? Who in hell are they?”
Oscar’s eyes began to glaze, but he smiled. “They are The Facts, my queen. The Facts. Everything the lab reveals as truth. The DNA, the fingerprints, the fibers, the insects, the wounds, the ballistics. Everything that makes up the measurable. They’re truth, but they lack soul, understanding, intuition. Oh how they crave intuition. Especially yours. Don’t give it away, Ellie. Don’t let your world revolve around what you can see, taste, touch. The Facts are cold, unfeeling. You’re not. That’s what anger can do: send you scurrying away from who you are and into a world that won’t give you the time it takes to die. Don’t—”
There were more shots. They sounded distant. She looked at Oscar. Only, he was gone. In his place was a forensic file. She flipped it open and scanned the reports that had been part of her for the last ten years. Paper and print. Nothing more. Nothing less. Just The Facts.
Three more shots and Ellen’s eyes flew open. After a brief moment of disorientation, she found herself staring into a face . . . the face of her gray tiger cat, Mulder, as he sat on her chest, his breath reeking of tuna, his expression asking what the hell was going on.
Great question, cat.
Everything came rushing back. Everything. Oscar’s murder. The other crime scenes, her conversation with Big Harv, the missing evidence bags. Ruining her boots on the side of the black-and-white. She loved those boots.
She sat up on the couch and exhaled, realizing that the dream hadn’t evaporated entirely. Oscar’s words rang in her head. She understood what her subconscious was, and had been, preaching to her. But it was a dirty trick to use her dead partner as its mouthpiece. Nevertheless, the point had been made. Ellen Harper needed to change her MO and start to trust again, although it seemed like an inappropriate time to even consider trusting anyone. And besides, it was just a dumb-ass dream. Right? Then again . . .
Oscar’s face jumped to
the forefront of her mind, and she smiled, despite the situation. He’d be proud that she was at least listening to a different camp from the one she’d been living in.
She rose and stretched. Brice and her dad had been right to insist she get some sleep before tackling the investigations. She had wanted to go directly to the lab, but finally relented and agreed to being dropped off at her apartment. In the end, she was grateful for their persistence. She had never even made it to her bed. She’d kicked off her boots and tossed her jacket, fed Mulder, grabbed the red comforter, and flopped down on the couch, still in her jeans and blouse.
Even thoughts of holding Oscar in her arms and images of Holly Seabrook’s posed body couldn’t keep sleep at bay. Exhaustion—both emotional and physical—had worked its magic.
She started for the kitchen, and the shots rang out again. Stopping in her tracks, she grabbed her piece from the antique cherry table and listened. Were the shots part of the dream? They weren’t.
Someone was knocking on her door.
She could count on three fingers the people who had visited her over the last six months. She racked the slide of her modified Beretta 92G—thanks, Kate—and cleared her thoughts. Any fatigue left over from the previous grueling day became a distant memory. Her dad had taught her never to let down her guard. Cops didn’t have that luxury.
Mulder trotted past her leg and headed for her bedroom, his favorite hangout when he was anxious. She took a step toward the door, then stopped, listening closer. She heard only the beating of her heart reverberating in her ears.
Three new, loud, purposeful knocks caused the doorframe to vibrate. Ellen jumped, but never took her eye from the doorknob. She wanted to look through the peephole, but her training, and her paranoia, told her to take her time and make sure it was safe. Whatever that meant.
Fifteen seconds later, she stood to the side and risked a glance through the hole. She swore, accepting the relief that came with recognizing a familiar face.
She unlocked both deadbolts. The chain rattled against the door as she swung it open.
“About freakin’ time, Sleeping Beauty. It’s damn near seven thirty. You think it’s easy on this old girl to be waitin’ out here like this? I was worryin’ my fat ass off,” said Kate Mortimore.
“Hell of a day and night, Kate. I’m sorry.”
“I heard. I liked your boy Oscar, even if he didn’t know a good meal from a hand on his ass.”
Without another word, her gun-toting best friend smothered her in a bear hug. She hadn’t realized how much she’d needed one.
But Kate had known.
CHAPTER 19
Closing the small wooden flap against the air vent leading to The Room, he stepped back, then scrambled away from the opening as fast as he could, away from what he saw, away from the woman in the chair who saw him. He tried to calm his breathing, like his brother had taught him, except it wasn’t working. He tried again, closing his eyes and imagining that he was in his safe fortress. After a few moments, it began to work.
Every time. Every damn time. What the hell is wrong with me?
He could handle two computers at once, juggling program after program, even working the complicated investment portfolio to maximize profits, but the thought of a woman looking at him made his knees weak. Especially someone as beautiful as her. Each time he felt a woman’s eyes rest on him, his stomach lurched and his heart pounded in his chest.
“You got to get this right. You got to step up to the plate, or you’re going to live a very lonely life,” he said, whispering.
Nothing new with the lonely parts of his days and nights. It had been that way pretty much since he’d turned seven. The incident had forever changed him. Not just him, but his family, too. His brother had accepted the role of unofficial guardian, and his mother . . . Well, Mother had always been Mother, just worse in the aftermath.
He wiped the sweat from his face and reached for the small door again, hesitated, and then clenched his hands together, wringing them methodically.
What if she saw him again? What would she do if she got a good look and saw the real him?
He’d learned that eyes weren’t only the windows to the soul, but windows from the soul as well. It was impossible for people to hide their thoughts from him. He’d become an expert out of necessity.
The small wooden door that separated him from Joannie Carmen seemed to grow smaller as he felt anger replace his fear. What did he have to be afraid of? His brother had been preaching that sermon for a few years now, but it hadn’t truly registered until a few weeks ago. His brother had told him that power came from turning fear into a resource, an asset. He’d said, over and over, that we make our own world, no matter what hand we are dealt, and if the world wouldn’t give you what you wanted, you took it. Plain and simple. At first, he thought his older brother was harsh, uncaring, and self-absorbed. In the end, however, his brother was right. People don’t give a rat’s ass about anything except what they want. He had tried the conventional methods, all to no avail. Each rejection, professional and personal, had added one more black, disdainful mark to the ledger.
Pulling the slat open with force, he eyed the woman in the chair. She seemed to have forgotten about him for the moment and was working at the ropes around her wrists. He studied her, the curve of her calves, leading to strong thighs and a flat stomach. He moved to the firm, ample breasts and perfect neck, then up to her hair, exactly the length he loved. Her face was the kind you saw on those chick magazines that gave advice to the modern woman. Beautiful hardly captured this one. The others were special, and he’d been happy with them. He would have learned to love them, but they weren’t like her. He was already head over heels for her. She was perfect.
He lingered another minute, then gently dropped the small door into place. He felt his heartbeat stir as he headed out of the small, ten-by-ten room and started for the stairs. It was time for her to meet the real him and, in a sense, for him to meet the real her. No games, no yuppie-type facades, no coffee shop games or bar scenarios. Just people meeting people.
“Are you ready, my darling? Are you ready to embrace your destiny?”
He hoped so. Really hoped so.
He’d waited far too long for his.
CHAPTER 20
Ellen stood in the doorway of her second bedroom, which served as a refuge for her ultimate escape: painting. She watched as Kate carefully ran her hand over an almost-complete rendition of the sparkling Chicago skyline, just barely touching it. Kate was like this every time she walked into Ellen’s studio, gentle in her approach to the art, appreciative. It was of no consequence to Kate whether Ellen’s work hung on the wall, still awaited final touches on one of the three easels lined up in a perfect row, or was under the black tarp where Ellen discarded the creations she deemed pure, unadulterated shit. Kate loved all of it.
“You got to get a gallery show for this stuff, Ellie. You keep gettin’ better and better,” said Kate, without looking away from the painting.
“You say that every time you come here. This isn’t gallery material. Besides, I do this to get in touch with sanity, not to give others something to tear apart, like those jerk-off critics love to do. I’d just end up smacking one of them.”
“For a smart chick, you don’t know goose shit from apple butter, now do ya? This stuff is good. No, better than good. You got talent, girl. And maybe some of those little sissy boys and shiny girls runnin’ those galleries could use a good smackin’. Bring them to their senses. God’s word says not to spare the rod. I like that part.”
“Goose shit from apple butter? That’s new. Anyway . . . we can talk about this later. Detective Brice Rogers is on his way over. We’ve got our first task-force meeting this morning. Plus, I need to get to the lab to look at the evidence collected at . . . at Oscar’s . . . site.”
Oscar’s site. It sounded so cold. All through her
shower and two cups of coffee, even during a quick snuggle with the enigmatic Mulder, who occasionally allowed such foolery, she’d staved off the scene that pounded at her eyes, her mind, and, worst of all, her heart.
Good God in Heaven, she was going to miss that boy. His work, his face, even his incessant ragging.
Don’t know what you got until it’s gone.
And why were the evidence bags from Holly Seabrook’s scene missing? Did that have to do with Oscar’s death, or was something else going on?
She shifted her feet, staring at her paintings as she did so. Trying to put the facts of this case and Oscar’s death in some kind of order was burning a hole in her brain. She felt her very soul grow just a little colder, a little harder.
Murder happened all the time, everywhere on this sick-ass planet, but not to her people, not to people she had coffee with and spent holidays with and confided in. It wasn’t allowed. So how had this happened?
His open, unseeing eyes would haunt her, but not as much as when they’d sparkled with energetic life.
She tugged at one of her earrings and inhaled. There was only one way to ease that pain, if only a little. She was going to catch whoever was responsible for his death. And if there was any justice in the universe, she’d be there when they cuffed the perp, or perps. Better yet, maybe the perp would give the Chicago Police Department a reason to protect themselves. She wasn’t opposed to letting the Beretta bark. Not at all.
“Hey. You still here?” asked Kate, moving away from the skyline painting and over to the almost-finished landscape of the beach on Lake Shore near Ohio Street.
“Yeah,” she sighed. “Just need to get to work. That’s all.”
“Work can be a great healer. I can see how it must be terribly exciting to look through those fancy electronic microscopes at bugs, dirt, blood, fibers, and the like until your eyes bug out. Mm-mm. I don’t think I could contain myself. Probably better than emptying a sixteen-shot clip on a target at the range. Hell, probably better than sex,” said Kate, her eyes dancing.