by K'wan
“Detective Wolf,” someone called from behind him. Wolf turned to see Scott Gooden coming out of the building. He had shed the doe-eyed look he’d had on his face in front of his parents and now wore a hard scowl. Even his oversized jeans sagged a little lower. He was the classic case of a kid living a double life: the good son in front of his parents, the cool cat in front of his homeys from the neighborhood. Wolf had played the same charade when he was a teenager toeing the line between good and evil.
“What up?” Wolf asked in a stern tone, not quite sure if the boy came in peace or wanted to pick up where his father left off.
“Yo, I wanna apologize for how my dad acted back there. He hasn’t been the same since Johnny died. He can be kind of a dick sometimes,” Scott said.
“So I’ve noticed.”
“Well, the whole neighborhood has been talking about the priest. Once I heard, I knew the police would be coming by here to ask questions. Or at least I hoped.”
“Scott, do you or your parents know anything about the priest’s murder?”
“Nah, I don’t know nothing about it, but I’m glad he’s gone. I hated that muthafucka and he got what he deserved,” Scott spat.
This surprised Wolf. “Those are some strong words about someone who you’re mother seems to think was a good man.”
“My mom’s head is in the clouds. Father Fleming was a piece of shit and if you find the person who killed him, I’d like to shake their hand and tell them thank you.”
“What’s your gripe with the priest?”
Scott started to speak, but stopped abruptly when he saw the other teenagers who had been standing in front of the building watching him talking to the detective. Wolf noticed them too.
“I ain’t no rat,” Scott said. The tough-guy scowl was back.
“Scott, I know you ain’t a rat. Anything you say will stay between us. You have my word on it. Now, it’s obvious that you know something, so why not just tell me what it is. Help me connect the dots between this killing and your brother’s murder,” Wolf urged him.
“I never liked that dude,” Scott began. “My mom and everybody else swore that he walked on water, but that’s only because they didn’t know him like we did. All of us kids hated him, except my dumb little brother. He was as blind to that snake as my mother and father.”
“Did Father Fleming ever do anything to you? Did he touch you?”
“I ain’t no fucking faggot,” Scott snapped.
“I know you ain’t no faggot, Scott. It’s just a routine question,” Wolf said. “Did you ever see him try and touch any of the other kids? Maybe your brother?”
“I would’ve killed him if I ever saw him messing with Johnny, but the way he used to look at him gave me the creeps,” Scott answered.
“What kind of look? How did he look at Johnny?”
“Like he was a meal.” Scott’s voice was heavy with emotion. “He was always sniffing around Johnny, but he would lay off when me and the older kids were around. He knew we’d kick his old ass if he tried something. My mom would always make me take Johnny to his Little League games when my dad couldn’t. The baseball field was only two blocks from the house and I didn’t see why Johnny couldn’t walk by himself, but my mother insisted that I take him. It pissed me off because when I had to watch Johnny, I couldn’t run with my friends. So one day I told him to walk by himself, because I was trying to get busy with the girl form the third floor in the staircase. That was the day Johnny got snatched. It was all my fault!”
“Scott, you can’t blame yourself for what happened to Johnny. You had no way of knowing that someone was going to kidnap him.”
“But if I’d listened to my mom, it wouldn’t have happened! She always warned me about looking out for my little brother and I fucked up. Now he’s gone.” Tears flowed down Scott’s cheeks.
“And how does the priest play into all of this? What makes you think he was responsible for what happened to Johnny?” Wolf asked.
“I don’t know for sure, but I felt it in my gut the moment he showed up at our house to lead the prayer circle for Johnny’s safe return. There was something about him that didn’t sit right with me. Everybody was all broken up about Johnny disappearing, and they were still hopeful that we’d find him alive—but not Father Fleming. He was talking about Johnny in the past tense as if he was already dead, before the body had even been found.”
“How come you didn’t tell me any of this when I was investigating the case?”
“I wanted to, but when I mentioned it in front of my mother, she slapped me in the face and told me it was bad to lie on good men. I should’ve said something anyway, but now it’s too late. My brother’s gone and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Wolf told him. “If the two murders are connected, I’m going to find out. I told your parents years ago that I wouldn’t rest until Johnny’s murder was solved and I meant it.”
Wolf’s promise clearly made Scott a little hopeful. “Oh, and before I forget, there’s one more thing.” He pulled a folded slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to Wolf.
“What’s this?”
“It’s the receipt the guy who came to collect Johnny’s clothes gave my father. He said something about it being a tax write-off.”
Wolf examined the paper. It was from a standard receipt book that could be purchased at any stationery store. He was about to shove it in his pocket when his finger ran over the sheet and he felt grooves. “You got a pencil?”
Scott handed Wolf the pencil he had in his pocket and watched as the detective rubbed the pencil faintly over it. Just as he’d thought, there was something there. Someone had written something on the slip that came before it and left the impression. It was an address.
“Damn, where’d you learn that trick, at the police academy?” Scott asked, staring at the outlines of the numbers and letters that had appeared almost magically in the shadows of the pencil strokes on the receipt.
“No, reruns of the Bloodhound Gang on PBS.” Wolf tucked the receipt in his pocket.
“The what?”
“Never mind. Thanks, kid. Is there anything you can tell me about the person who collected the clothes? Do you remember what they looked like?”
Scott searched his memory. “Yeah, he was wearing an army jacket. I remember because I thought the patch over the pocket was dope.”
“What kind of patch?”
“It was a stork holding a rifle with some letters under it. I can’t remember which letters, though.”
“Thanks, Scott. You’ve helped more than you know.” Wolf turned to leave.
“Detective Wolf,” Scott called after him, “now that you’ve heard my story, do you believe me about the priest being involved or do you think I’m just imagining things like my parents have been saying?”
Wolf thought long and hard before responding. “I can’t tell you what I think, but I can tell you what I know. And what I know is, if the two murders are connected, I’m going to find the thread that binds them.”
CHAPTER 6
Poncho perused the aisles of the minimart inside the rest stop, thumbing through magazines and testing the air pressure on bags of potato chips. He’d spent the past twelve hours making deliveries and pickups between New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania, and was sick of driving. He couldn’t wait to make his last drop so he could log out for the day and smoke a blunt and get some pussy that he didn’t have to drive for.
Poncho felt like his most recent career path was well beneath his caliber and expectations. He’d had a good job working for the city morgue, where he made a nice piece of change and didn’t have to do much work. Some people were squeamish about being around dead bodies all the time, but it didn’t bother Poncho. He welcomed their silence, coming from a house with a nagging wife and four kids who he couldn’t stand. It had been his perfect getaway, and the fact that he could come and go as he pleased without suspicion suited some of his extrac
urricular activities. He’d been able to feed the urges his wife couldn’t satisfy. It had been the perfect job, but Poncho had blown it all by doing a favor for a friend.
The sound of the door to the minimart opening drew Poncho from his moment of self-hate. A Latino family walked in, consisting of a squat father, a mother with eye-catching hips, and their two children. The oldest of the kids was a girl who looked to be about fifteen or sixteen with hips she had definitely inherited from her mother. From their tan lines and the way they dressed, Poncho knew they weren’t local. They were likely passing through from somewhere warmer. The girl must’ve felt Poncho’s gaze on her because she looked up and made eye contact with him. Poncho gave her a playful wink that made her giggle.
The father gave him a dirty look before barking something at his daughter and waving his hands in Poncho’s direction. She said something back, then stormed off to busy herself at the soda cooler. The father looked like he wanted to continue the argument, but decided against it. He led his family to the other side of the rest stop where the food court and bathrooms were located.
Poncho watched the girl watching him through the cooler glass. He openly flirted and she was receptive to his advances. The tender young girl would be the perfect snack for his urge. After a brief look around to make sure the parents were nowhere in sight, Poncho made his move.
“Como esta, baby?” Poncho said, making it a point to sound extra-Latin. His Spanish was horrible, but he knew enough to make himself sound exotic when trying to run game on a girl.
This one just giggled.
“Such a pretty laugh to go with a pretty young thing. I’ll bet when you take a shit, even your turds are pretty,” Poncho said. It was a crass line, and a grown woman would’ve probably blown him off, but she was young and impressionable.
He stood there making small talk and laying compliments on the young girl, and she soaked it all up. She’d had boys come on to her but never a grown man, especially one as handsome as Poncho. She was putty in his hands. It took less than five minutes for the predator to talk the girl out of the minimart and into his van, which was parked around back.
The sun was already down, so it was dark out and nobody could get a clear peek inside the delivery van as long as he didn’t turn on the dome light. The girl didn’t speak much English and Poncho didn’t speak much Spanish, but they both understood the universal language of marijuana. It was the promise of some primo choke that had been what sealed the deal. Poncho had gassed her up to smoke a joint with him in the van while her parents were still inside. What he didn’t tell her was that he had laced the weed. Poncho slipped his hand in his pants and fondled himself, while the girl took deep tokes of the joint. She tried to offer it to Poncho, but he declined. He got so turned on watching her pink lips wrap around the joint that he couldn’t help but to wonder how they would look wrapped around his dick. The visual became so intense that he almost blew his load in his pants. He and his urge would have to be patient. It only took a few minutes for the joint to start to take effect, disorienting the girl. She was finally primed and ready to feed Poncho’s urge.
“Enough of sucking on that bud, chica, it’s time for you to suck on some meat,” Poncho said, pulling the girl toward him.
She tried to pull away, but the laced weed had her feeling like she had no control over her arms and legs. Still, she kept trying. When Poncho’s palm landed heavily against her face she ceased her struggling. She was dazed, but she recognized the cold press of the knife Poncho had just laid against her throat.
“Listen here, you little bitch,” he rained spittle in her face. “I planned to give it to you nice, but I’m fine with giving it to you rough if that’s how you like it. Now, if you keep trying to fight me, instead of walking back in there to your parents, they’re going to find you behind this minimart with your throat slit, comprende?”
The girl nodded.
“Glad we understand each other.” Poncho set the knife on the dashboard and wiggled his pants down around his thighs so his dick could breathe. “Now, you get to sucking and you better not stop until my little man fills that pretty mouth of yours with joy juice.” Poncho sat back and left the girl to her work.
Her tender hands felt like clouds caressing his balls and the shaft of his dick. He planned to make love to her mouth like it was his high school sweetheart. He could feel the heat from her mouth hovering above the head of his dick and his leg shook nervously in anticipation. But instead of feeling the soft lips of a young girl on his penis, Poncho felt a pinch.
He grabbed the young girl by her hair and pulled her head up. “Bitch, did you just nip my dick?”
The girl shook her head frantically, hoping he wouldn’t hit her again.
Poncho was about to say something, when the pinch he felt on his dick turned into a throbbing, then graduated to a burning sensation. “What the fuck?” He hit the houselight so he could get a better look. Just over the vein of his dick there was a small bleeding pinprick. The flesh around the wound looked bruised and blackened. Poncho wasn’t sure if he’d gotten a contact or not from being in the van with the laced smoke, but he could’ve sworn the bruise was spreading and turning his whole dick black. He grabbed the young girl by the neck and began shaking her. “You dirty bitch, what did you give me?”
“A little necrotizing fasciitis, spiked with the sap of a plant I crossbred with the hopes that it would accelerate the flesh-eating disease’s process. From the pained expression on your face, I’d say it worked,” a voice whispered in Poncho’s ear.
Poncho looked up in the rearview mirror and saw someone sitting directly behind him, tucked in the shadowed recesses of the last few boxes he was supposed to deliver. He couldn’t see the person’s face because they were wearing a black mask, but in the center of the forehead of the mask was flower carved out of steel and onyx . . . a black lotus.
Ignoring the pain in his penis, Poncho shoved the teenager aside and lunged for the knife on the dashboard. His fingertips had barely grazed the hilt of the blade before pain exploded in the back of his hand. Embedded in the soft flesh was a hook, attached to a thin chain. He tried to reach with the other hand, but it too was snared. With a tug, Poncho was dragged onto the backseat. He tried to get up, but the chains pulled harder against him. Poncho lay on the floor of the van, arms spread like he was on a crucifix, at the mercy of the Black Lotus.
“Dear God,” Poncho cried.
“God does not hear the whimpers of men like you, pedophile,” the Black Lotus told him. “While busy adults turn deaf ears to the cries of wronged children, the Black Lotus hears them all.” The killer straddled Poncho’s chest. From a hip scabbard, the Black Lotus produced a flat blade that was nearly two feet in length. “Your kind are what’s poisoning society, but I am the antidote.”
“I’m connected,” Poncho said nervously. “I’ve got some important friends who ain’t gonna sit by and do nothing if you make me disappear.”
The Black Lotus’s head cocked to one side. “Isn’t that what you’ve been doing, making people disappear? Yesterday it was evidence and today it’s young girls. Does your evil know no bounds?”
Poncho’s skin paled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just a delivery guy.”
The Black Lotus dragged the blade across Poncho’s chest, tearing open his work shirt and a nasty gash just above his rib cage. “Your lies have no power over someone who has been shown the truth. My eyes have seen the glory and my ears have heard the voice of God. It was my Lord and Savior who sent me forth to slay the wolves and gather all His sheep so that they might hear His divine word too. Tell me, sinner, are you ready to hear the word?”
“Fuck you, you sick bastard. You’re going to burn when word gets out about what happened to me. The people I’m connected to are gonna come around asking questions!” Poncho struggled against the hooks, only making his wounds bleed more.
“I fully expect them to ask questions, and when they do, my blade and His word sh
all be there waiting to answer them.” The Black Lotus hoisted the knife above Poncho’s thrashing body. “For the Lord Himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first.” The blade slammed into Poncho’s gut. “Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with Him.” The Black Lotus pulled the blade across Poncho’s gut and stopped when it hit his breastplate. Then the killer angled the blade so that it was lined up with Poncho’s heart. “Wherefore comfort one another with these words,” the Black Lotus whispered before piercing Poncho’s heart. “Thessalonians 4:16–4:18.”
The teenage girl was curled in a ball on the floor under the dashboard, whimpering hysterically, trying not to look at the inky black form oozing toward her. Moving as subtly as a specter on a haunted breeze, the Black Lotus reached out and tilted the girl’s chin up.
“Tsk, tsk . . . no need to fear the reaper, child,” the Black Lotus said in an almost concerned tone. “Death comes for us all sooner or later, but I have no claim to your life . . . at least not tonight.” The killer cupped the teenager’s hands which, once released, were now holding a black lotus flower. “When you grow to be a woman and reflect on the blessings of your life, remember this night and who it was who gave you a second chance.” Grazing the young girl’s face with a gloved finger one last time, the Black Lotus turned back to Poncho, drew a short sword from a back scabbard, and began his work.