by David Beers
Simply put, he didn’t know what to do, and if Tommy was sure of anything, it’s that Luke knew exactly what he was doing.
Charles raised the gun and pointed it at Christian’s skeletal frame. Tommy knew the man was close to shooting them both, and Christian’s shrieks would only push him over the edge. Tommy had to do something.
“Hey, Twaller, listen to me. Can you hear me?”
“Yeah,” the fat man said, the gun still on Christian.
“Then get over here and let’s talk. You kill Christian and I promise Luke will make whatever is coming that much worse. Let’s talk about how we can kill Luke before he gets here.”
“Shut the fuck up. I’m not a goddamn idiot. You’re dead no matter how this works out, whether at my hand or his.”
“Whatever you want to do to us, Luke’s actions will be worse. I can help you.”
The fat man turned around, his jowls almost shaking from his anger. He waddled as fast as Tommy had ever seen him, and then pistol whipped Tommy across his cheek. Tommy couldn’t feel the pain, though there was pressure and stars filled his vision, lighting up the black room.
“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” the fat man screamed before turning back to Christian.
Tommy felt his consciousness swimming, nearing the point of going under water, unable to hold itself up any longer. He fought forward, willing himself to stay in this room, to keep Christian alive.
The fat man held his gun pointed at Christian again, and goddamnit if Christian wasn’t fucking singing.
“YOU ARE MY SUNSHINE, MY ONLY SUNSHINE! YOU MAKE ME HAPPY, WHEN CLOUDS ARE GRAAAY!”
Jesus Christ, what’s happening to him? Tommy wondered.
“I need to think,” Twaller said through gritted teeth. “I need to think GOD DAMN IT!”
“Christian!” Tommy said as loud as he could, though Tommy didn’t know if he heard a word over his song. “Shut up!”
“NO, NO, NO!” Christian cackled. “Luke is here, and the wicked witch is about to be dead, riiiiight, Charlie?”
Tommy heard Twaller cock his pistol, the chamber full and ready to fire.
“Hello, everyone.”
Christian’s screaming stopped. Tommy watched as Twaller turned to the sound of Luke’s voice. The entire world—or at least the world of those in this room—had ceased moving. The planet no longer rotated around the sun, but around Luke Titan.
Tommy looked forward the best he could and saw his ex-partner. The moon seemed to shine on him brighter than anything else in the room, and two things rose in Tommy at the same time: hate and awe. Luke was soaked in blood, dark maroon stains up to his elbows and splatter marks across his neck. Still, he had come, climbing up through what anyone else would have considered a chamber of horrors—Tommy knew the truth, though. The horror was the man in front of him. Not the fat little guy to his left, but the creature who thought itself on par with gods.
“Hello, Mr. Twaller. I told you I was coming. Here I am.”
Chapter 8
Besides one contact, the animal worked alone. He had only met his contact once, just as he did everyone he worked with, and that had been enough. The contact was nameless to the animal and the animal nameless to him. The relationship was the closest thing to family that he would ever have.
He left the FBI’s parking deck and walked down the D.C. street. The air was cool and he was heading back to his hotel room. It was too late for the metro, so he hailed a cab and gave the driver his address. The animal didn’t stay in nice hotels when he was on the road. He certainly had the money to, but the trappings of privilege never appealed to him. They were an extravagance that he didn’t have time for.
The cab pulled up to a small motel about 30 minutes outside of the city.
The animal wasn’t worried about being tailed or the Director deciding he’d made a mistake. Men like that didn’t make mistakes when it came to murder. But, if the Director suddenly did decide such a thing, the animal wouldn’t care. He’d been hired and there would be screaming. First the person he was hired to hurt, and then—if an error had been made on the Director’s part—he would scream as well.
The animal stepped from the cab, handing the driver enough for the fair plus a 15% tip.
He walked around the outside of the motel, up the steps to the second floor, and then used his key to unlock the door.
It was time to go to work.
The animal was vaguely aware of Luke Titan—which meant the man had to be famous. The animal cared nothing for pop culture, politics, or generally anything outside of his very narrow life and skillset. Yet, he’d heard the name.
His laptop was where he had left it, sitting open with a black screen and waiting on him to return.
He pressed the power button and the screen lit up.
In another part of the country, a chained man was singing a song and losing his mind. In that same part of the country, another, fatter man was growing fearful for his life. A paraplegic sat inside his own head, watching and waiting—much as he’d done for the past two years. And finally, the last man, moved through a building, killing and fully focused on his goal.
The animal and that last man were very similar in one fashion. Their singular focus on goals.
Waverly arrived at home but he didn’t sleep.
He thought about the man that had been inside his car and he thought about Tommy. About Christian. And, of course, he thought about Luke.
He poured himself a glass of whiskey, downed it, then poured another.
Waverly didn’t know how the hired killer had made it through headquarters’ heightened security, but he had; then he’d been waiting inside Waverly’s car just as relaxed as a sunbathing cat.
An hour after he got home, and on his third whiskey, he picked up his cell phone and called the same number that had first connected him with the killer.
“I want a dossier,” Waverly said, “on whoever you hired.”
“That’s not necessarily smart for a man in your position. It could open you up to … issues in the future.”
“I don’t care. Send it.”
“As you wish,” the voice said.
Waverly hung up, stood from his seat, and went to his kitchen. He stood in front of the sink, holding his glass and looking out the bay windows into the dark sky.
The hours passed in silence for the animal. Other people, when confronted with that type of silence, would find noise to preoccupy them—that, or due to the late hour, they would sleep. The animal didn’t mind the silence because he didn’t notice it. He noticed when there was noise, and that bothered him more than anything. Now, in his small, almost forgotten motel room, the silence was like a womb to him, holding him in its embrace.
It took him two hours but he knew what he needed to about Luke Titan. The animal was never impressed nor disappointed; he remained on an even keel whether targeting the homeless or kings.
Titan’s last known whereabouts were at a hospital about ten miles from where the animal was currently staying. He would need to go see it tomorrow. Of course, he would have gone tonight, but the hour was far too late. He would be remembered and not granted entrance. No one would speak to him.
Tomorrow would be better.
The animal hit the power button on his computer and the screen blackened, leaving him in darkness. Only the light from the balcony shined in, and only then at the edges of the drapes.
The animal stood from his chair and went to the bed. He sat, then removed his socks and shoes. He placed the shoes just beneath the bottom of the bed, and then matched his socks together. He stood again, removing his shirt and folding it, followed by his pants, folding them as well, and finally his briefs. He placed them all neatly on the bottom left corner of the bed. Naked, the animal walked to the bed’s other side and laid down. He slept on his back, closing his eyes and falling asleep immediately.
The animal considered his life restful, but when he slept, he dreamed, and the dreams created ripples throughout his mind and body. Pi
nk light dominated his dreams. It sometimes came during the day, though rarely, and he was always able to shove it aside quickly—but at night, the pink light reigned. It came and it told of the things he would not—indeed, could not—think about. He tossed, turned, grunted, and generally slept poorly. He never knew it, though. Each morning he awoke with the same mindset that he went to sleep with. The pink light vanquished until his next slumber.
This evening, his dreams were no different.
The subconscious is a funny thing. A man can live his life one way, but what happened in his past, echoes forever in his mind. Luke Titan, the man the animal was chasing, would understand that sentiment well.
The animal’s mind was a place most people would not want to venture into. He had once been tested by psychologists and labels were discussed. However, as they were deciding what to list on his paperwork, one psychologist said to the other:
“He’s lost. I wouldn’t venture to call him soulless, but he’s a man who’s forgotten he ever possessed one.”
The doctors did not know of the pink light, because the animal hardly knew of it.
The animal tossed and turned across the covers, though somehow his subconscious kept him from disturbing his folded clothes. Perhaps that was so when he awoke, he would have no knowledge of the torture his mind put him through each night. Perhaps, it was to keep things on an even keel.
Despite the pink light which shone over everything, his dreams were dark places.
When he woke, the bed was virtually undisturbed and he was in the same position he had fallen asleep in. He never used an alarm clock, but awoke precisely at 4:58 each morning. The animal stood from the bed, stretched his arms above him, squatted deep to ensure his hamstrings were loose, and then stood again.
It was time to go to the hospital.
Chapter 9
Charles pointed the gun at Titan. “Put yours down.”
Titan’s pistol faced the floor. The man looked like he’d been playing butcher downstairs, and despite the stress threatening to pull Charles apart, a giggle almost rose to his mouth at the thought. A vision arose in Charles’s mind: This man in his three piece suit, down there cutting up cows.
“I can’t do that, Mr. Twaller,” Titan said. “Would you mind telling me how many men were here with you?”
“Only us three,” Charles said with a smile, wondering at the same time if Titan could have possibly killed them all. He didn’t think so. No one could do that, not this man, nor a goddamn Green Beret.
“I wonder where all this blood on me came from then,” Titan said. He looked away from Charles as if he wasn’t there at all, his eyes going to the invalid. “How are things, Tommy?”
“Fuck you,” the crippled whispered.
Charles did giggle then. Maybe he should have listened to the man—maybe he did hate Titan enough to help Charles kill him. Too late now, though.
“You don’t seem to have a lot of friends,” Charles giggled, his nervousness spilling out in unexpected ways. “These two don’t like you much, that’s for sure.”
“And Christian? How are things for you?” Titan asked, looking up to the hanging ghoul beside Charles.
Windsor said nothing, swinging slightly back and forth against the pull of his chains.
“Okay,” Titan said, his eyes focusing on Charles again. “You’ve had your fun, sir. It’s time to let them go.”
“Ha! Is that how you think this will work? You’ll show up and I’ll just hand them over?” Charles was talking but he was wondering where the rest of his bodyguards were. He’d been an idiot to show up here without his radio, without anything besides a pistol. Still, they had to be on the way. The gun blasts would have been heard throughout the warehouse.
He simply couldn’t have killed them all.
“If you don’t release them now, it’ll be worse for you,” Titan said.
“Shut up and put your fucking gun down. There’s nothing you can do here.”
Even as Charles said it, he knew how stupid the words were. He didn’t even have time to pull on his trigger before Titan’s gun was leveled back at him. The man moved too quickly, a bloody, red blur.
“I think you should put yours down,” Titan said. “And let them go. I’m not going to ask again, Mr. Twaller.”
Fuck this, Charles thought.
Perhaps Titan saw his eyes widen slightly, or maybe some other small tell, but as Charles’s finger squeezed down, Titan dove to the right.
The gun banged in Charles’s hand, a yellow flash from the barrel lighting up the darkness for a single second. Charles’s ears rang, but he peered forward, trying to focus despite the darkness all around.
He’d hit nothing. No one stood in front of him. No one lay on the ground clutching their bleeding body. There wasn’t even anyone holding a gun and telling him to place his down.
Charles spun around, panic rising in him again. The man was a fucking ghost and he’d dissolved into the air. Charles turned fast, spinning twice before ending with his eyes on Windsor.
The room was too dark and large, with broken down machines against the walls and in the corners. Charles grabbed at Windsor, taking hold of him even in the darkness and spinning around so that he was behind the FBI agent. He brought the gun up to the man’s temple and pulled Windsor back as far as he could, wanting to get closer to the chain-link fence behind him. Charles couldn’t quite touch it, but was close enough so that no one could sneak up on him.
“I’ll kill him, Titan! I’ll shoot him right in the goddamn head!”
Only silence answered Charles. He looked out into the blackness, trying to make out something—anything—besides the derelict machines. He saw no movement, and even as he strained his still ringing ears, he heard nothing either.
“Come out here with your hands up. Now. Or he’s dead.”
The words that came next swam across the whole room, as if a ventriloquist spoke them. The words came from above and below, side to side, like some great magician caused them to emanate from the walls.
“Charles, did you think you would be able to stop me? You, of all people? I’ve seen the mind of God. I’ve been inside it. You … You’re an insect, struggling so hard to stay alive, but in the end, your existence is short and meaningless.”
The mind of God? The man was a goddamn psycho. Charles pulled Windsor closer. He wasn’t quite tall enough to put his arm around Windsor’s neck, so he wrapped it around his deteriorated waist.
“Shut the fuck up with your crazy shit or I’m going to plug him, Titan.”
Something moved on Charles’s right and he swung Windsor toward it, pointing the gun at the darkness as he did.
He saw nothing.
“He’s going to kill you,” Windsor whispered. “Not me, though. He’s going to make me live. I think you’re getting the better deal.”
The freak had been sounding crazy since the lights went out, but despite his screaming and singing, that might have been the worst thing to come out of his mouth. He spoke as if they were co-conspirators and someone might be eavesdropping on an important conversation. More, he sounded like he actually believed what he was saying.
I think you’re getting the better deal.
Charles swung Windsor’s hanging body back so that he faced the black room. Nothing but silence, only broken by the rattling of Christian’s chains.
“Yes, yes. I’m sure you’re getting the better deal,” the freak said.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” Charles whispered.
“Because Luke,” Windsor continued as if Charles had said nothing, “ … he tortures you while you’re alive. Not physically. Not like this. Well, maybe like this too. I don’t remember. It’s all a jumble, ya know?”
Charles slammed the butt of the gun across Windsor’s cheek—clipping him but not knocking him out. The freak let out a low groan, but said nothing else.
“Don’t touch him again, Mr. Twaller.”
The words were at Charles’s neck, and he tried—Lo
rd, did he ever—to turn around. The gun was firing even as he did, its muzzle flashes blinding in the room’s darkness, but somehow Charles knew there was nothing that could be done. The ghost was here. The ghost had come for him.
Chapter 10
The animal arrived at the hospital an hour after the sun rose into the sky. The wing where the kidnapping had taken place was closed. It wasn’t yet under construction, but the animal saw no police walking in and out of the building (nor anyone else, for that matter). He’d read last night that the patients in this wing had been relocated or released, depending on their status.
The animal walked up to the yellow police line taped across the area, blocking off potential onlookers from those who had business inside. The animal had business, so he raised the tape up and stepped underneath it. He walked across the concrete pathway, and up to the front door, finding it locked as he twisted the knob. The animal looked down at it for a second, and then walked to the right, taking the path along the side. He checked a second door, and then a third. Finally, he went to the wing’s backside; its parking lot contained no cars nor access streets to the main road.
The animal simply walked up to one of the windows lining the walls and dropped his elbow into it. Glass broke and clattered to the ground, but there wasn’t anyone around to hear it. No one besides him.
He used his boot to clear out the rest of the glass, and then stepped into the hospital.
Anyone else would have said the wing was eerily quiet, but the animal felt at home.
He breathed in deeply, taking in the smells. No cleaning crew had been out here yet, and so he smelled slight traces of gun smoke, blood, and perhaps even the remains of fear. It smelled salty, like sweat combined with gasoline. Faint, but there.
The animal took his backpack off, placing it on the ground, then knelt before it. He unzipped it and then removed a small Ziplock bag. He took out the patch of suit he’d taken from the target’s house.