by Tom Abrahams
She pressed the bread to her lips and sucked. She closed her eyes, tasting the salty residue on her tongue. It was satiating.
The assassin had long thought the red liquid that leaked from an undercooked steak was blood. She enjoyed the sight of it spilling onto her plate as she cut into the meat. There was something sacrificial about it.
But even after she learned the liquid was a mixture of water and a protein called myoglobin, and not blood, she held onto the belief that somehow she was freeing the beef of its soul in a ritualistic, serrated slaughter. It was an exsanguination.
Having sopped the remainder of the juice into the bread, and having sucked it dry, she poured herself a glass of water and bowed her head in prayer. Her eyes pressed together, her hands raised above her head, she spoke.
“Blessed are the eyes that see what you see,” she hummed. “For I tell you that many prophets and kings wanted to see what you see but did not see it, and to hear what you hear but did not hear it. You, brothers and sisters, are not in darkness so that this day should surprise you like a thief. You are all children of the light and children of the day. We do not belong to the night or to the darkness. So then, let us not be like others, who are asleep, but let us be awake and sober. For those who sleep, sleep at night, and those who get drunk, get drunk at night.”
The assassin licked her lips, interlocked her thumbs, and flapped her hands as though they were wings. She inhaled until her lungs were full and then she slowly exhaled. This was a ritual the assassin repeated after every meal.
She pushed away from the table and reached for the television remote, pushing the power button as she slid back onto the unmade bed. She looked at the clock on her bedside table. It was after midnight. The day’s cable news programs were repeating their earlier broadcasts. She skipped past them to a music channel.
One music video was ending and another beginning, the rhythmic beats of the two songs mixed as the screen dissolved from one artist to the next. The assassin was half paying attention, her thumb on the remote, until she heard a familiar tempo stylized by most East Coast hip-hop artists.
The screen was black, except for a pyramid of bright blue light that pulsed with the thump of the artificial 808 drumbeat. Slowly, from the light, emerged a shadow of a man. He was cloaked and hooded in cerulean blue. In his left hand was a large cane.
The light transitioned from blue to red, the man’s robe taking on a purple hue as the thick strum of a bass guitar joined the drum. The assassin knew the song. She’d seen the video before. She was nonetheless transfixed.
The man on the screen held up his right hand, his fingers spread wide and his palm facing the camera as he lifted his head. In the center of his palm was an eye. Its iris was red, the pupil dilating with the beat of the music.
The camera zoomed in slowly to the man and he started to rap. The hood was still on his head, but his left eye was visible through the shadow it cast on his face. The assassin turned up the volume.
From the darkness it comes,
the snake in a dream, unseen
so real, revealed,
to me in the gutter
don’t clutter your thoughts
’cause it will consume you
and ruin you
The all-knowing slither
come hither
don’t ask questions just go
give your soul for the gold
and the fame it’s the same
as taking a bite from the apple
in the garden of Eden
I’m pleadin’ to release me from this
I need peace from this not a piece of this.
not a taste, not a bite,
venom.
The assassin sat unblinkingly as the pyramid of light turned white and unglued the screen when the chorus began. The rapper’s voice was replaced with what sounded like a Gregorian chant.
The venom, the venom, seeps through the vellum.
It facilitates bedlam and tremendous momentum.
From order comes chaos,
From chaos comes the lesson.
The poison will save you.
Succumb to the venom.
The bright light dissolved, revealing the cloaked man in the middle of a windswept desert. He was standing on the middle of a dune, alone, but there were two sets of footprints leading to him. He was still holding the cane in his left hand, his head cloaked in the hood, as he recited the second verse. He raised his hands and the cane above his head as the refrain began again. He slowly dissolved into the sand, melting into the dune.
The assassin laughed at the absurdity of it, the overdone transparency of the symbology. She wondered, for an instant, why the masses failed to see it. Then, just as quickly, she remembered they were blind. They were unenlightened. Despite the ubiquitous pyramids, eyes, and colors all around them, the people could not conceive of the bigger picture. They were numb to it.
Horus took it a step too far. His music was too “on the nose”. He tried to lift the veil, to warn the blind of the dangers ahead. That was unacceptable.
He wasn’t the first to try. He wouldn’t be the last. That was why she was who she was. That was why they relied on her, why they allowed her the power to silence those who challenged the order of things and threatened the greater good.
The assassin shook her head at the television and turned it off. She needed sleep and she had a sense that her next mission would begin soon.
CHAPTER 11
THE GALLERIA
HOUSTON, TEXAS
Dillinger Holt was sitting at the desk in his hotel room. It was close to two o’clock in the morning.
“I don’t know how reporters did their jobs without the Internet,” he mumbled to himself, awash in the blue glow of his computer screen. His fingers typed another set of search words and he waited for the results to populate. It took an instant.
FBI Analyst Kills Self After Internal Investigation Found Wrongdoing
Holt copied the link to the two-year-old article and emailed it to himself. Then he read the highlights. He couldn’t believe what he was reading. Despite the headline, there was more to the story than a guilt-ridden suicide.
Erik Majors, thirty-eight, of Alexandria, was found dead from an apparent drug overdose in his one-bedroom apartment. Majors, a systems analyst with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, was on unpaid leave during an internal audit of his work. Court documents filed the morning of his death charged him with violating the 1917 law prohibiting the sharing of classified information.
Majors was found in his bed surrounded by drug paraphernalia, according to an unnamed source close to the investigation. The initial findings indicate he intentionally overdosed on an illicit drug believed to be heroin.
However, the lead investigator said at a press conference late Monday, he could not rule out the possibility of foul play.
“There are indications that despite Mr. Majors’ state of mind,” said Sergeant Kevin Boxell, “someone else may have played a role in his death. I’m not one hundred percent convinced he killed himself.”
The FBI has declined comment on the case against Majors or his death. Court documents, however, reveal concern regarding the information Majors may have leaked, given his access to sensitive documents and operations.
Holt took a pair of earbuds connected to his voice recorder and put one of them in his right ear. He pressed play on the recorder and typed notes into his computer as he listened.
“There was the smallest trace of lipstick on Horus’s ear,” Karen’s voice said. The sounds of the restaurant made it somewhat difficult for Holt to hear. “It wasn’t much, but we swabbed it and tested for DNA.”
Holt put the other earbud into his left ear and turned up the volume on the recorder.
“As a matter of procedure, we swabbed it and submitted it to CODIS,” she said.
“That’s the DNA database?” Holt heard himself ask. He didn’t like the sound of his voice. It was higher pitched and not as masculine as
it sounded in his head.
“Yes,” Karen answered. “The Combined DNA Index System. The FBI runs it out of Virginia.”
“You found something?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“That quickly? The guy’s been dead, like, three days. I thought DNA tests took weeks or months.”
“With backlogs it can take that long. The testing itself takes anywhere from a couple of hours to four or five days. I know some people there at the lab, and they rushed it for me.”
“What did they find?”
“They got a hit with a sample from a three-year-old case,” Karen answered.
“Who was it?”
“There’s no name attached with the hit,” Karen said. “All CODIS has is the DNA profile, the name of the agency that worked the case, the specimen identification number, and the person who ran the original profile.”
“No,” said Holt. “I meant, what case.”
“Oh. It was a drug overdose. Heroin. At first they thought it was a suicide, but they later ruled it a homicide. There was a fair amount of evidence at the scene that indicated someone forced the drugs into the victim’s bloodstream.”
“Just like Horus.”
“Yes.”
“So what does that mean?”
“You’re the reporter,” said Karen. “That’s up to you to figure out.”
“Who else knows there could be a killer out there?”
“Just my contact at the FBI lab and me, I assume. There was never an arrest in the case. Despite the match, there’s no way of knowing whose DNA it is.”
“So there’s no investigation?”
“Well—” Karen sighed “—I would guess the original investigative agency, the Alexandria, Virginia, police department, would probably get a notification. Houston police will get a notification. So there could be one.”
“How soon before HPD and Alexandria police get notified of the connection?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “HPD won’t know anything until we turn over the official death report. I can’t speak for Alexandria.”
“You okay with me putting together a piece on this?”
“As long as you don’t quote me,” said Karen. “Just cite unnamed sources.”
“Give me a second source.”
“I just did. The FBI.”
“They won’t talk to me,” Holt said. “Maybe Alexandria will.”
“Maybe. And there’s one more thing.”
“What?”
“The information comes with a price.”
Holt pulled the earbuds from his ears and stopped the digital recorder. He looked at his notes.
“I’ve got to call that sergeant with Alexandria in the morning,” he murmured to himself until a voice from behind him startled him.
“Will you be here when I wake up?” Karen tugged the sheet up toward her neck. She was lying on her back, propped up by all four pillows on the bed.
“You scared me.” He laughed, turning to face her.
“Sorry.”
“You’re awake,” Holt said. “I’m here.”
“You know what I mean,” she purred.
“It’s my room. I suspect I’ll be here.” His smile was genuine but laced with a hint of the devil that tempted Karen from her car, into the lobby, and up the elevator into his room. “I thought you were asleep.”
“I was for a second. I can’t believe I did this again.” She pulled her hands to her face, covering it as she groaned. “I have no self-respect.”
“I respect you,” Holt said, having already turned back to his computer.
“Right.”
“I do.” He laughed, spinning in the chair to face her. “I respect that…that thing you did with your—”
“Shut. Up.” Karen reached behind her head and lobbed one of the pillows at Holt. It hit him in the chest. “I should go.”
“No.” Holt stood from his chair and tossed the pillow back onto the bed as he climbed onto it with his knees. “Stay with me. I’ll be here in the morning. I promise.” He slid up next to her, resting his head next to hers.
“It’s actually already morning,” she said. “It’s two o’clock. And I have to work. I should go.”
“Sleep here. I’ll lie here with you until you pass out.”
“How thoughtful.”
“No,” he backtracked, “I mean, I’ve got some work I have to finish. I won’t leave. I was a jerk for doing that last time.”
“Yeah. You were.”
“You like me anyway.”
“Yeah. I do.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t go back to sleep just yet.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t.”
CHAPTER 12
SOMEWHERE OVER SOUTHERN EUROPE
The first-class flight attendant couldn’t keep her eyes off the man in 2D. He was incredibly attractive, strong, with perfect olive-colored skin. She imagined the definition of his muscles through his sheer linen shirt. His eyes, though. They were what gave her pause. There was something sinister in their darkness. It made her heart flutter against her chest, her pulse quicken as he scrolled through his iPad.
“Is he not ridiculously hot?” she asked her coworker.
“In a Vin Diesel kind of way,” the friend answered.
She’d passed by him once after the plane reached altitude. His head was turned toward the window and she’d noticed a triangular tattoo at the top of his neck.
Could he be any sexier?
She stood at the front of the cabin, leaning against the edge of the galley. She lowered her chin and willed him to stare back at her. He was only one of three people in first class. The other was a couple in row four. They were asleep.
He looked up and she averted her eyes quickly. She knew, though, he’d caught her staring.
“May I refill your drink, Mr. Vasconselos?” she asked, bending at the waist to offer him more than a drink. “I thought you might be thirsty.”
He looked up from the tablet and into her eyes. He was searching her soul, she was certain. Her cheeks flushed.
“Por favor,” he said. “I would like another water. With gas.”
“My pleasure, Mr. Vasconselos,” she purred, leaning across his body to take his empty glass and wet napkin, purposely brushing her blouse against his arm.
“Anything else I could get you with your drink?” She pulled away, hoping her freshly applied citrus scent would appeal to him.
“You’re American?” he asked without any inflection.
“Canadian.” She smiled, her red lips drawn on wider than their natural boundaries. “Toronto.”
The hunk nodded, his mouth turned down at the corners. He looked down at his tablet, perhaps signaling his lack of interest. The flight attendant took what she perceived as a hint and returned to the galley to refill his drink.
After dropping in some fresh ice and topping the glass with Pellegrino, she adjusted herself, hoping she’d be more likely to quench his thirst than the refill. Checking her reflection in her iPhone, she smacked her lips and pinched her cheeks before returning to 2D.
“Here you go, Mr. Vasconselos.” She smiled as she set down the glass on his armrest. “Is it too forward for me to ask you if you’re traveling for pleasure or business?”
“What’s the difference?” he asked without looking up from the iPad. He was scrolling through a news website, using the airplane’s Wi-Fi service to connect to the Internet.
“Uh,” she gulped her awkward response, “I guess it depends on what you consider pleasure and what you consider business.” She shrugged, a hint of double entendre in her smile.
“Es verdad,” he said. “You speak the truth.”
“You should stop by and see me.” Enough game playing. He was either uninterested or oblivious, she figured. “I’m right on the water. Really nice hotel.”
“Really?” His eyes shot up from the iPad. “Which hotel?”
“The Eurostars Marina. It’s right on the pier next to the World Trade Cen
—”
“I’m familiar with it,” he said. “It looks like a cruise ship?”
“Yes!” Her eyes lit up. “That’s the one. I have two days before I have to fly to—”
“I’ll stop by tomorrow,” he cut in. “We could have breakfast.”
“You could stop by tonight,” she said, leaning in, making sure his eyes saw her assets pressed together beneath her strategically unbuttoned uniform blouse. “We could still have breakfast tomorrow.”
“I could do that.” He looked up from her assets and into her eyes. She lost her breath in the darkness of them. There was something wild or reckless hidden beneath the surface.
“Give me your hand,” she said and pulled his left hand toward her, gently unfolding his fingers. His hands were enormous, his fingers smooth, his manicure perfect. She pulled a pen clipped to her blouse and wrote on his hand. “I really don’t do this. Ever,” she lied as she scribbled her name and cell phone number onto his palm. “I just find you so incredibly attractive. I’d love to get to know more about you.”
“That’s very kind of you,” he said, his eyes flitting between his palm and her eyes. “I find you attractive and I’d like to get to know more about you too.” There was something odd in the way he said it. It was as if he was parroting her without understanding the meaning of the words. She ignored it, choosing to anticipate his hands on her body.
She giggled, feeling the warmth return to her cheeks.
“Señorita?” 4B called out. “Café, por favor?”
The flight attendant smiled and nodded at 4B. “Sí, señor, un momento.”
“I’ll see you tonight, Mr. Vasconselos.” Her hand trailed along his arm and she returned to the galley to brew fresh coffee for 4B.
She had no idea what she’d done.
CHAPTER 13
NEAR THURMONT, MARYLAND