by Fynn Perry
After half-hitting, half-sinking into the sidewalk, he staggered to his feet and ran toward an alley. As he did so, he heard screeching tires and the sound of a car-on-car collision and thought maybe he had just initiated the capture of a serial killer.
Sprinting down the nearest alley, John feared two things. The first was that the pursuing spirit from the club would figure that the erratic behavior of the van had something to do with John and would at any moment be right behind him. The second was that he wouldn’t be able to outrun it––he was again feeling the effects of fatigue hitting him.
Another alley branched off to his left. He glanced down it as he passed, looking for somewhere to hide but found none. Returning his gaze to the route directly ahead of him, he suddenly stopped in his tracks.
The spirit of a young girl had appeared in front of him, as if from nowhere. She was about his age and pretty, in a tough-looking way which she’d emphasized with a trendy biker’s-style jacket, jeans, and Doc Marten boots.
“So, you decided to stay on, rejecting the afterlife and all the powers it offers. Why?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Never mind, it’s probably something boring like ‘my life was cut too short’ or ‘I want to stay with my girlfriend.’” A knowing smile appeared briefly on her lips.
John had no idea who she was and wasn’t in the mood for what seemed like idle chat in any form right now. “What do you want from me?” he asked, starting to feel uncomfortable under the scrutiny of her smoldering orange eyes. “I don’t have time for this,” he added as he started to make a move to go around her.
“Count yourself lucky I’m even talking to you. I usually only talk to the ones I select.”
“Select for what?” John asked, suddenly curious.
“You can’t handle the ‘what,’ at least not until I decide you can,” she answered.
“Oh, I think I’m more than ready for some answers!” John retorted in annoyance. “I was just inside a van containing a chopped-up body and being driven by a psychopath with a spirit coming out of him! And anyway, how come you know so much about me?”
She ignored his outburst. “Think of your run-in with our serial killer friend as a glimpse into another aspect of your new world, John, a dangerous one where the mortal world you once knew and the spirit world overlap. Evil on that kind of scale, without empathy or remorse, requires, as you saw, more than just the mortal’s own dark soul in his or her body. It needs an earthbound spirit with equal or greater malevolence to join it and make that person do truly wicked things. But the suffering that serial killer can cause, even with his greater capacity for evil, pales by comparison with the suffering and death that someone like El Gordito and the spirit possessing him can inflict. You’d be wise to stay out of his way.” She paused looking at John’s shoulder. “Too bad you didn’t learn your lesson the first time you were attacked by a spirit, John.”
John was shocked by everything he had just heard. Her tone was dispassionate, coolly informative, but he sensed that there was also a trace of excitement in her voice. “How do you know my name, and why are you telling me about El Gordito?” he asked.
“Enough questions, John. The spirit that was chasing you is catching up!”
“How do you know––”
“If you don’t want to be ripped into pieces, you’ll listen to me. You’re no match for him. There’s a hobo farther along this alley. Possess him. It will be your first…Pop your cherry as it were…You have a good incentive––it’s called ‘survival.’ She gave a wry smile as she said this.
“How do I do that? And what if he’s already possessed?”
“No chance. No spirit wants to live the life of a hobo. Especially as this one’s brain is fried!”
“What about you?” John said, concerned.
“Don’t worry about me, John, I’m not like you. But if it helps to make me seem more human, you can call me Nikki.” Her eyes rolled back in their sockets to reveal deep, black voids as she smiled, and then, in an instant, she disappeared.
John had no time to stand and wonder who or what had just happened. He ran along the alley, finally coming across the homeless man passed out in a pile of cardboard boxes.
Moral objections aside, he had no idea how to possess his first host. Without knowing if it would work, he stepped backward into the protruding feet of the man. Ignoring the sudden shivers running through his would-be host, John then sat back, lowering himself through the boxes and onto the body beneath, trying to line up his longer body with that of the rough sleeper as best he could. The shivering of his host had now transformed into uncontrollable trembling, and John feared the man might be having some kind of seizure. This wasn’t going well; there were forces at work here that were beyond his understanding. If he didn’t do this correctly, not only would he reveal his hiding place, but he feared he could end up killing his host. Realizing this, he was about to change his plan and take his chances with the pursuing spirit when he noticed that in addition to the mismatch in size, he wasn’t fully aligned with the hobo’s body. Correcting this triggered a reaction: his host suddenly arched his back for a split second, and John felt the sensation of being drawn in, shrinking to fit and becoming sealed within a new body. For a second, he panicked that he wouldn’t be able to break through the seal and leave. Pushing against it with his entire arm, he felt relief as the limb emerged with only the slightest resistance and immediately returned to its normal length. He moved his arm back inside, and the sensation of the seal returned, his arm perfectly in line with his host’s.
John had no time to reflect on the mind-blowing thing he had just done. He hadn’t passed straight through the guy; he had somehow locked into his body. And now he had some sensory awareness from a mortal body again. Not full awareness, given the catatonic state of his host, who was incapacitated from alcohol, perhaps meth. It was what made him the perfect hiding place despite the overwhelming smell of sour sweat and stale urine.
A few moments passed, and John’s earlier fears were realized. A spirit, probably the spirit, was passing nearby. As he observed it through the closed eyelids of his host the intensity of its glow faded and then unexpectedly increased again. It had come back to take a second look. The light became brighter still. It must be looking at his host’s face, studying it, probably trying to look for any tell of possession, John thought.
The intense glow persisted. Seconds turned into minutes, and John considered his glow might be visible through the hobo’s eyelids and the spirit could just be waiting for him to appear. The thought filled him with greater panic. Sooner or later, he would have to make a run for it, but it would mean certain death, real death, oblivion through being torn to pieces. Maybe that’s what she, Nikki, whatever she was, wanted to happen and he had stupidly fallen for her trap.
Just when he couldn’t stand the wait any longer and was ready to run, the glow abruptly died away. Darkness returned. John waited another ten minutes before he exited his host, to calm his nerves and to be certain the spirit had gone.
Ten
Farther downtown at that same moment, Daniel Lazlo was working late at the 73rd precinct, catching up on background work to several drug-related killings. He was sure they were connected with El Gordito’s men, but the lack of hard evidence was making it difficult to prove and his captain, Tony Ruzek, required nothing less than an airtight case when going after someone as powerful and connected as El Gordito.
He stared at the far wall of the empty detectives’ pen and at the stuffed boar’s head that was mounted among other trophies: machetes, axes, and unusual weapons seized during raids on gang lairs or stash houses. The hog had been christened El Gordito and wore a trilby hat, as favored in the summer months by its elusive namesake.
Lazlo decided to go to the kitchen for what he guessed was his sixth cup of coffee. That night, the precinct had had the usual kinds of cases to deal with—stabbings, murders, and drug overdoses—but things had quietened down now. On his way back to his desk, he he
ard a woman’s voice cursing in the entrance lobby. Out of blind curiosity, and as an excuse not to get back to the files straightaway, he listened, then took a stroll to the front desk.
She sounded genuinely distraught, as the sister of a missing person would be. Perhaps more so, and it turned out that was because the desk sergeant couldn’t get her first name right. It was spelled ‘Siobhan’ but pronounced ‘Shi-vawn,’ she was telling him. He had twice gotten it wrong when taking down her details and it had added unnecessary friction between them, as evidenced by the red flush in her Irish-fair complexion.
“Now, if we can get back to the matter of my brother being missing . . . I’m telling you, he was beaten by those thugs—doormen, I suppose you’d call them—working at the club and wasn’t seen after! What does that tell you!”
“I’m going to ask you, again, to calm down, ma’am. We will investigate the beating, but we cannot consider your brother missing until forty-eight hours have passed,” the desk sergeant persisted.
Lazlo introduced himself. They contrasted strongly in appearance; he was over six feet and had sun-kissed olive skin; she was barely over five feet with sun-shy, milk-white skin.
“Siobhan Kendrick,” she responded, still flustered.
Lazlo could see the woman was about to bombard him with a number of questions. He lifted his hand to show she should stop, and then turned to the desk sergeant and asked, “Which club?”
“DNA,” came the reply.
At this, Lazlo became very interested. He knew DNA was owned through a convoluted company structure that could ultimately be traced back to Miguel Vargas. “Ben, it’s OK. Let her through. I’ll take this one.”
“Ma’am, this way please,” Lazlo said, leading her from the foyer to the detectives’ bullpen.
He went to sit behind his desk, gesturing for her to take the seat in front of it. Lazlo heard about cases like this many times a week. NYC was full of clubs, and the reasons why doormen beat up clients were many. Most people who went missing, in his experience, did so for a while to lick their wounds after a fight. More often than not, they turned up before the ink on all the paperwork had dried, and cops had plenty more serious cases to deal with in the meantime. Lazlo knew all this, but because the DNA club was involved, he was keen to see if the woman’s case might lead to something bigger that he could use against El Gordito. Maybe this was a thread he could start pulling . . . and something larger would unravel.
He listened intently to Siobhan Kendrick’s story. Her voice was sharp and her tone demanding. Her nineteen-year-old brother, Mark, had gone to DNA with a group of male friends who liked to drink and party. It was expensive, so they didn’t go often, but when they did, they partied hard. She had said this with a slight smile, suggesting to him that she and her brother were close. When he asked if her brother took drugs, she admitted that he did occasionally. His friends had told her they had lost sight of him around midnight after they’d all tried a new drug people raving about––some pills one of them had bought at the club, but that they’d spoken with a girl Mark had been talking to earlier in the night who told them she had seen him fighting with the two security men around 2:00 a.m. When his friends approached the club’s security to ask questions, they were told he’d been thrown out for aggressive behavior.
Siobhan made a point of stating that her brother was not a violent man and could handle his drink. He would sometimes stay out all night after hooking up with someone at a club, but this was now the second night with no contact from him, and this had never happened before. She had just come back from trying to find him at all of his favorite nighttime haunts, but with no success.
To Lazlo, it seemed on the surface like an isolated act of violence. Because of that, her belief that the police would not do anything to help was not misplaced. However, in this instance, because of the wider case, he would follow up. He asked for a recent photograph of her brother and after scrolling through images on her smartphone. She presented him with a photo of a man in his thirties with a narrow face who wore his hair long and was saved from looking feminine by a strong chin.
It was nearly 1 a.m. when Lazlo walked Siobhan Kendrick back to the entrance lobby. After she’d left the precinct, he stopped by the desk sergeant on his way back to his desk. “Where are we on these types of incidents compared to last year, Ben?”
“I’d have to say it’s up about five times on the average for last year.”
“On beatings by bouncers and incidents related to bouncers?”
“Yeah, but not just that. There’s a lot more violence, including domestic violence. And in a lot more of the cases, we’re finding the attacker was high and extremely aggressive.”
“When did the increase start?”
“I guess around a month ago,” Ben stated.
“Any idea why?”
“Not really, but I heard there’s a new drug on the street and it causes paranoia and violent behavior.”
“Christ! That’s all we need.”
“Hear that.”
“Have a good one, Ben,” Lazlo said as he returned to his desk. Sipping his coffee, he scanned some more papers, intermittently thinking about the dangerous side-effects of the new drug Ben had just told him about.
An hour later, Lazlo decided to call it a day and got into his car, a silver Audi sedan with sports tuning, which he always drove, even on police business. It was a point of contention with his captain, but he favored it over the department-issued, unmarked Crown Victorias, which were underpowered, poorly-maintained, had no style, and reeked of cop-on-the-streets. As he drove off, he was convinced there must be a connection between the appearance of the new drug, the upturn in violence, and the disappearance of Kendrick at El Gordito’s club.
He took Thomas Boyland Street and then turned onto Sutter Avenue. The dimly lit streets were deserted, with only a few cars passing. As he approached some metal stairs leading to an elevated subway station, he saw that a fight was in progress between two youths. One, despite being smaller, was overpowering the other, beating him almost senseless against a wall.
Lazlo took out his phone and called it in to dispatch. “NYPD!” he shouted after getting out of his car and starting to run toward the youths.
He came up behind the attacker and tried to pull him off, but the smaller youth elbowed him in the chest with such force that he fell backward, winded and gasping for breath. He then lunged back onto the man’s prey, who had slumped to the ground and was curled up, trying to protect himself from an onslaught of kicks.
Lazlo tried to get up, but heavy, burning chest pain stopped him. Fearing for the life of the other youth, he un-holstered his weapon and let off a round above the attacker’s head. At this, the aggressor turned to look at him with a stare that mingled rage and surprise, then turned and ran. Lazlo staggered over to the youth lying on the ground and tried to revive him, but he remained unconscious.
Five minutes passed before a squad car and a paramedic’s truck arrived in a blaze of pulsating lights. Lazlo was pulled off the youth while still trying to perform CPR. One paramedic checked the victim’s vitals. He re-started resuscitation attempts.
“We have a pulse but it’s weak. We have to take him now!” shouted one paramedic to the other. He looked up at Lazlo, shaking his head. “Less than a fifty percent chance he’ll make the journey.”
As Lazlo watched the body being taken away, he noticed a small piece of carefully folded foil lying on the ground nearby. At first, he suspected it was a small amount of crystal meth, heroin, or crack, but the small parcel was too flat. He took out the latex glove he carried in his pocket for evidence-handling, and used it to pick up the object. Inside the foil were two pills, each in a separate plastic wrapper. He studied them. They were white with a red spider embossed on one face. Lazlo had never seen this logo before. He wrapped them back in the foil, then in his glove, before pocketing them.
It was late, and he had taken quite a hit to the chest, but sleep would have to wait.
Lazlo couldn’t get the strange pills out of his mind. He followed the paramedics to Brookfield Hospital and, inside the ER, saw them talking with a doctor next to a stretcher carrying the body of the young man. As Lazlo approached the doctor, he heard him confirm the cause of death as severe trauma inflicted by multiple blows to the head and body. In short, the youth had been beaten to death.
Lazlo flashed his badge and asked the doctor if they could speak privately. The medic nodded and took him into a side room. Lazlo immediately showed him the pills and the doctor examined them carefully. He said he thought he had seen something like them before, but couldn’t be sure, as most designer drugs carried a variety of strange logos. In any case, as part of normal procedure, the coroner would do a tox screen. When Lazlo asked a few more probing questions about drug-induced casualties, he confirmed that he had seen the number more than double over the last month and that more of them involved strongly violent behavior.
“Come across anything unusual in anyone’s system?” asked Lazlo.
He shook his head. “Just the usual, you know: pharmaceutical opiates, heroin, coke, fentanyl. But a lot more heroin and crack than in previous months…Wait, you should speak to Nurse Roberts—I think she said something about some strange new pills earlier in the week. They could have been the same as these.” He picked up the phone on his desk and made a call, asking someone on the other end of the line to see if the nurse was free to come to his consulting room.
While they waited for the nurse, the doctor insisted he investigate Lazlo’s erratic breathing and the obvious pain he was displaying when walking.
Examining Lazlo’s chest, he noticed severe bruising to the right of the solar plexus. “We’ll bandage up your chest, but I suspect you have a fractured rib,” he warned. “You need to get a chest x-ray now.”
A nurse walked in with a warm and infectious smile.
“Nurse Roberts here will answer your questions—on condition you go with her for an x-ray,” the doctor said sternly, knowing that Lazlo was keen to get away now his shift was over.