Chasing Fireflies (The Morning Star Trilogy)

by Paul Seiple

  I’m impressed that you remembered this place. How long has it been? Ten years, fifteen? This is fun, isn’t it? Are your dreams starting to make sense now? How does hopelessness taste? Bitter? Sickening? You know what’s happening, but you can’t do anything about it...yet. Soon you’ll have the chance to face your demons. I hope you’ll be ready. - Murmur

  P.S. Recognize the boot? It’s Sunshine’s. I told you that you couldn't save her. You can’t save any of them. You can’t even save yourself. And the knife in the tree? That’s Sunshine’s blood. The one at the office is chicken blood. You should be honest with your partner. He is going to start doubting you.

  The O’s were missing from the words. Murmur had left his mark.

  *****

  “Tests are back on the knife,” Bill said, sitting his coffee on a stack of paperwork. The cup caught the corner of the papers, knocking them to the floor. Coffee spilled over the desk when Bill reached out to grab the papers. “Shit.”

  I chuckled. “You never learn. How many times have you spilled coffee this week? You’re keeping Joe’s in business.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Anyway, the results are back.”

  “It’s animal blood,” I said, spoiling the big reveal.

  “Chicken blood. How did you know? This shit’s weird, Mike.”

  “I figured it had to be someone messing with me. I remembered that I reamed some kids pretty hard for hitting my car with a ball last week. It’s probably them.”

  Bill couldn’t know about the latest note, Ashley’s boot, or the knife. I killed the girl in my dreams, and I just so happened to have the evidence. There was no believable alibi for that. The boot and knife were tucked safely in my bedroom closet. I prayed that Murmur didn’t send anything else to the Twelfth. Part of me knew that he wouldn’t. This was between us and us only. The only reason he sent a package to the precinct was to make me aware that he could. A power play.

  “So, there’s no missing girl?” Bill rubbed the fabric of his white shirt trying to magically erase the specks of coffee. “Pretty elaborate hoax for a bunch of brats.”

  “No missing girl. I bet they took the picture and sent it to me.”

  “But why to the Twelfth? Makes no sense to me. I could throw their asses in jail faster than they can shoot their wads into their daddy’s porno mags.”

  “Those kids go down to the park on the corner of Rafferty and Colonial to play pickup ball games. I bet they saw her there. I’m sure she’s fine.” The lie sounded good. I almost believed it. Ashley Harris wasn’t fine. I hoped Bill, preoccupied with his stained shirt, believed it too.

  Bill shook his head. “You’re probably right. We should still take another look to be sure.”

  Bill had been a detective too long. The look he gave me led me to believe he thought I was hiding something. Was he just waiting for me to trip and hang myself? I had to be careful.

  “We should pay those bastard kids a visit too.”

  “I’ve got it under control. Let me handle them.” There was no cracking in my voice. No hint of untruth. Curb any reflex that suggests deceit — rapid blinking, a forced smile. Most importantly, maintain eye contact. Which I did.

  “You got it, partner,” Bill said, going back to cleaning his shirt.

  Chapter 7

  Why someone becomes a serial killer is a question with many complex answers, but in some cases the answer is simple — because they are evil. That’s George Staley. He wasn’t born evil. He was groomed for it. His father planted the seed at an early age, telling George that his destiny was to end this god-forsaken world. When George was nine, Art Staley took his boy to a slaughterhouse. George saw brutality first hand. As George cried, Art consoled him, telling him the cows were the lucky ones. Their executioner was a savior, sparing the beasts of a miserable existence.

  Years later while teaching his boy how to hunt; Art used George's adoption as a way to further his plans. He told George that his biological parents didn’t want him. They threw him out like garbage. He was weak due to a near-death experience at birth. His parents didn’t know the brush with death made him special. George cried.

  “No need to cry, son.” Art loaded a shotgun.

  “But why didn’t they want me?”

  “Your biological parents were selfish. Just like the rest of the world. They wanted a perfect child. With your faint heartbeat, they feared you wouldn’t be strong. Even after the doctors assured them that you would be a perfectly healthy baby, they still tossed you. In their eyes you were damaged goods. That’s the problem with a world built in God’s light. Everyone wants perfection. It’s an insult to God.” Art handed a blue handkerchief to George. “Wipe your eyes and stop sniffling.”

  “How could they just get rid of me like that?”

  “Same way people trade in last year’s fashions. Look, son, this world is a cruel place. It's an infection without a cure. A spreading disease that’s destroying what the Lord worked so hard to create. Kids are starving and some spoiled brat won’t eat his peas because he didn’t get chicken nuggets. This world is a disgusting place.”

  Rustling of leaves caused Art to put his finger to George’s lips. A deer approached, nearly turning its head three-hundred and sixty degrees with cautiousness. “Clear your eyes and look through the sight,” Art whispered, handing the gun to George.

  “Maybe you should do it, Dad.” The gun shook in George’s hands.

  “No son, you need to learn. You’re going to save the world by ending it. This deer is one of God’s creatures. Don’t make it suffer through the harshness of winter. You must provide it passage to a safer place.”

  “What if I miss?”

  “Use the sight. You won’t miss. It’s getting nervous. Do it now.”

  George shifted. A twig underneath his leg snapped. The deer faced them, flexing its muscles, about to run.

  “Stay still and silent. Give it a chance to calm down.”

  The deer moved a few feet away and started to pick through the leaves.

  “Use the sight. Aim for the heart. It’s quick and painless. You remember where the heart is, right?”

  “Yes, sir.” George rested the butt of the gun against his shoulder. He looked through the scope. His vision, up and down, bouncing around like a ball, as he steadied the weapon.

  “Keep your arms still. Stop shaking.”

  George froze and grinded his teeth together. Tension sent a sharp stabbing through his forearms. He ignored the pain and didn't move.

  “Good boy. Do you have a clear shot?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Pull the trigger. End the misery.”

  The trigger gave little resistance to the pressure of George’s finger. A loud pop sent shockwaves ringing through his ears. The kickback forced him over the rock he braced against. The deer ran a few feet and fell.

  “Nice shot.” Art reached down to help George up. “Are you hurt?”

  “My ears are just ringing.”

  “It’ll pass. Think of it as the angels singing your praise. Let’s see if you saved the deer.”

  The short walk to the deer gave George time to reflect on what he had done. Shooting the deer felt like a bad thing to do — murdering the innocent, not saving the chosen. The animal lay on its side, chest jerking from shallow breaths. George stood in horror. Art took his hand and crept toward the deer.

  “You missed the heart. You have to end the suffering.”

  “I don’t know if I can,” George said, tears trickled down his cheeks as he looked into the deer’s glazed over eyes. A bond formed between the condemned and the executioner. Guilt wrapped around George, trying to force his soul from his body to face the shame of his actions.

  “You have to. We cannot leave it here in pain and vulnerable to the evil. God would frown down upon you. I know this is tough. But you’re strong. You can do it. It’s your gift. You’re the savior. God put you here to end the world’s suffering. You must start with this creature. Don’t view it as taking a
life. It’s giving life. You’re giving the deer a life in heaven, where there are no harsh winters. It’s the right thing to do.”

  The deer choked on George's actions. Ending the misery was the right thing to do. George raised the gun. Art grabbed his forearm, bringing the gun back to his side. “No, you have to do it with this.” Art handed George a hunting knife. “Don’t risk anymore suffering. Take this and slit its throat. It will be fast. The pain will be over.”

  George took the knife. Dropped to his knees and placed the blade against the deer’s neck. With his free hand he stroked the deer’s ribcage which vibrated under his touch.

  “A little lower,” Art said.

  George lowered the blade. His hand shook with each sob.

  “That’s it. One swift swipe will do it. End the suffering. Send the beast to the promise land.”

  George closed his eyes and jerked the knife upwards. A warm, wetness trickled over his other hand that braced against the ground.

  *****

  The dreams began shortly after George’s eighteenth birthday. They started innocently with George watching a homeless girl laughing and singing with a man in a wheelchair. The imagery grew more violent as the dreams progressed to the point of George murdering the girl. When he ended her life, George screamed. His father awoke and ran to his room.

  “What’s wrong, son?”

  George sat cross-legged on his bed shivering. “I had a bad dream.”

  Art smiled. He was proud of his boy. The bad dream could only mean one thing — George was realizing his destiny. His son was becoming a man. “Everyone has bad dreams, George. Sometimes the dream isn’t bad, it’s just perceived that way.” Art sat on the corner of the bed. “Tell me about it.”

  “It was nothing. I’m fine now.”

  “It’s better if you talk about it. I know it’s difficult. Have you freed the girl yet?”

  George gasped as though someone punched him in the stomach. “What?”

  “The dreams. Have you freed the girl yet?”

  George thought back to the deer. Art told him that freeing the deer would end its misery on Earth. It wasn't freedom, it was murder. George pulled away from his father. “How did you know?”

  Art put his arm around George drawing him closer. “I’ve seen your future, son. You’re a gift from God. It’s my place to see that you save those that deserve to be saved. I call them fireflies because of their glow.” Art smiled. “This will not be the last dream. It’s just the beginning. Have you freed her yet?”

  “You mean have I killed her yet?”

  Art smirked. "Such a harsh word for a righteous act, George."

  "Yes, I killed her."

  “And how did it make you feel?”

  “It scared me. I don’t want to kill anyone.”

  “You’re interpreting the act wrong. Remember the deer?”

  George nodded.

  “You didn’t kill the deer. You freed it from the hell of this world. This is no different. You’re dreaming of this girl for a reason. She’s the first one because she is very special. You’ll learn soon enough. She’s one of God’s angels. Freeing her will save her from the oncoming plague that will purify this world and put it back into God’s hands. When the disease strikes, people will beg you for the cure. Beggars will not be worthy. Only the fireflies will be saved."

  “It didn’t feel like I was saving her.”

  “It will become clearer as the visions progress.” Art reached for a Bible that lay, unopened for years, on a stand next to the bed. He blew dust from the cover. “Your future is in here, George. It is written in the seven seals. Once broken, these seals will cleanse the world of corruption. The first six seals are represented here on Earth by fireflies. You’re seeing the first in your dreams. You must free these angels and send them home before you bring Armageddon.”

  George rubbed his eyes. A feigning attempt to wipe away sleep, but the truth was he was hiding the tears from his father. He didn't want Art to see him crying. “Why me? What makes me so special?”

  Art smiled. “Don’t cry. This is a joyous time. You’re ready to learn what God has planned for you.” Art opened the Bible. “When broken, the seventh seal sounds the trumpets to play a death march as God takes back what man has destroyed.” Art pulled George’s hands away from his face. “You’re the seventh seal. Once you’ve sent the angels home, you’ll sing God’s song at the end of days.”

  *****

  George sat at a small table at the back of Cup O’ Joe’s. A few droplets of hot coffee trickled onto his finger. He didn't feel the burning; he felt the warmth of the deer's blood when he slit its throat. The same warmth he felt when Ashley Harris's blood flowed over his hand. A satisfying smile took over his face as he looked at the woman behind the bar.

  George watched her for months, just as he had the others. She worked mornings. Her routine rarely varied. At dawn’s rise she was all smiles, but by the end of her shift, her face couldn’t mask the torture of dealing with the public.

  She was number three.

  There was a tap on George’s shoulder. “Why here?” The balding man asked. “I told you I’m not comfortable meeting in public.” He took a seat next to George.

  “I’m working. I thought that would make you proud, Dad.”

  “That’s fine and all, but you can’t complete this job from a prison cell. I’m good, but I can’t keep you out of jail if you get caught.”

  George laughed. Art smiled.

  “So did you catch the first firefly?’

  “Yes, sir. You were right. I feel stronger.” George took a sip of his coffee.

  “I knew you would. Do you believe me now? You’re going to drain this cesspool.” Art looked over his shoulder. “How did it feel? Any remorse?”

  “She didn’t put up a fight. I was a little disappointed with that. It didn’t go just as in the dream. She knew me. That freaked me out a bit.”

  “It won’t be exactly like in the dreams. They are just rough drafts for you.” Art paused and then hesitantly spoke. “I probably should have told you this before, but I was afraid you wouldn’t go through with it. But the firefly you freed was your sister.” Art braced for a negative reaction.

  Big brother. She wasn’t lying. George took a sip coffee. He sat the mug down and smiled. “My sister, huh? You told me I only have a brother?”

  “You had a sister too. You never met her because your parents chose to dump you. She probably saw you in her dreams too. Siblings sometimes have similar dreams.”

  “She called me big brother.”

  “I wanted her to be the first, because she needed to be spared from the pain. Are you mad?”

  George took another sip of coffee and waited a moment, keeping his father in suspense before he spoke. “No, it’s my job to save the fireflies.”

  Art let out a long sigh. The relief didn't go unnoticed to George. “That’s my boy.”

  “Is it wrong that I felt like a god when her light faded? Does that make me a bad person?”

  “No, son.” Art looked over his shoulder again; making sure no one was watching them. “Never feel bad for doing the right thing. Your sister is in a better place.”

  “You’re too paranoid, Dad. No one’s going to recognize you. Hell, I’ve never even seen your horns.”

  “I’m not worried about being recognized, George. I’m worried about you being recognized. You’ve only caught one. You’re far from being finished.” Art pointed to a barista serving coffee to a chubby man. “So, she’s one of them?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Cute girl,” Art said, before placing his hand in front of his face. “Turn your head.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it. That’s Michael’s partner.”

  Bill Ash took a cup of coffee from the counter.

  “Try not to spill this one, Bill.” The girl smiled.

  “Can’t make no promises. But I’ll try. On a cop’s salary I can’t keep affording to waste these.”
Bill pointed the cup at the girl.

  Art exhaled with enough force to blow a napkin from the table. “She’s friends with Michael’s partner?”

  George smiled. “No, sir. She’s his niece.”

  Chapter 8

  Jogging usually helped to chase away the demons. The greenery surrounding the dirt trail hid the evil. The life of a homicide detective was a constant run-in with the plague of society. Being an insomniac who kills people in his dreams made me a symptom of the disease, not the cure. The lack of sleep, the doubt of who I really was, made it hard to trust myself. I made a promise to myself when I quit drinking to live a healthier lifestyle. Giving up soda? Not a problem. Red meat? That’s another story. Working out five days a week, I was in pretty good shape — much better than my partner. With my height and Bill’s weight, we were probably looked at as a crime fighting Abbott and Costello. Come to think of it, Bill bore an uncanny resemblance to Lou Costello, with a mustache of course.

  After a dream, the runs were longer and harder. I pushed myself beyond the point of exhaustion; almost catching death who I hoped had at least a fifty-year head start on me. When I jogged, I was the victim trying to escape the killer. A vicious circle of psychological torment. It doesn’t matter how fast you are, you’ll never be able to outrun yourself. Many times I’d stop to vomit along the side of the trail. It was as close as I could get to an exorcism for the malevolence that possessed my sleep.

  On this morning, a slight mist blanketed the trail, painting the landscape with an ominous film usually reserved for Stephen King novels, but I could see a woman — the killer behind her, laughing as she pleaded for her life. I closed my eyes. She was on her knees in front of me. Her eyes bloodshot from tears, black streaks of mascara smeared across her cheeks. Her face was pale. Her shoulder length brown hair, flattened by sweat, clung to her forehead. Death was there to collect. I opened my eyes, stopped running, and vomited. Not being able to save them left a burning pit in my stomach. It wouldn’t end with Ashley’s death. He was just getting started. I threw up again.