Method of Madness

by Brad Kelln

  "You sa­id it wasn't even yo­ur idea," Wen­ton sa­id. "What'd you me­an by that?"

  "Oh, not­hing. The ori­gi­nal idea ca­me from so­me­one in re­se­arch. They got this whac­ked out guy to fill out the de­ta­ils of the stu­di­es, pa­id him in cash. I think his na­me was Nic­ho­las Stan­gos."

  "Stan­gos?" Wa mumb­led.

  "Do you want his num­ber?" Met­tin­co­urt as­ked.

  Wen­ton wa­ited for Wa to res­pond but he didn't. He was sta­ring in­to spa­ce. Wen­ton to­ok over. "Get the num­ber."

  Met­tin­co­urt buz­zed his in­ter­com and tap­ped so­met­hing on a key­bo­ard.

  Wen­ton tur­ned and frow­ned at Wa who was still dist­rac­ted. "What's yo­ur prob­lem?" he as­ked qu­i­etly.

  "Do­es that na­me ring a bell with you?"

  "What na­me? Stan­gos?"

  "Ye­ah."

  "No, why?"

  "I've he­ard that na­me so­mew­he­re, re­cently."

  "You're be­ing psycho­tic. Snap out of-"

  "No! That's the guy. That's the guy that went to se­mi­nary with Gary Wright­land. The guy that tes­ted the low fre­qu­ency we­apons." He got up and star­ted to­wards the do­or.

  "Gim­me that fuc­kin' num­ber," Wen­ton bar­ked tur­ning back to Met­tin­co­urt. I want to get out of he­re be­fo­re Wa fre­aks out.

  Met­tin­co­urt grin­ned and held out a pi­ece of pa­per. "Right he­re. The ad­dress is the­re too. Why don't you go by and see him?"

  Wen­ton frow­ned. Met­tin­co­urt se­emed oddly co­ope­ra­ti­ve now. He tur­ned to go and then tho­ught of so­met­hing el­se. "One ot­her qu­es­ti­on: Do­es ECOR ha­ve any whi­te vans?"

  "Co­me on," Wa cal­led from the do­or.

  Wen­ton held up a hand to si­len­ce Wa and con­ti­nu­ed to lo­ok at Met­tin­co­urt.

  "Whi­te vans?" he sa­id in surp­ri­se. "What do you me­an?"

  "Com­pany vans," Wen­ton sa­id im­pa­ti­ently. "Do­es ECOR ha­ve any whi­te vans?"

  "All our ve­hic­les are in the com­pany co­lo­ur: blue."

  Met­tin­co­urt didn't mo­ve as he watc­hed them go.

  ***

  "What the fuck was that abo­ut?" Wen­ton as­ked on­ce they we­re in the ele- va­tor he­ading down to the lobby.

  "Stan­gos. Nick Stan­gos! He was a fri­end of the pas­tor I told you abo­ut. That was the guy. Re­mem­ber?" Wa spo­ke so qu­ickly Wen­ton fo­und it hard to un­ders­tand him.

  "You su­re? You su­re it was Nic­ho­las Stan­gos?"

  "Po­si­ti­ve. We ha­ve to find him. We ha­ve to talk to him."

  "Okay. Okay," Wen­ton sa­id in a pat­ro­ni­zing way as tho­ugh he we­re tal­king to an ex­ci­ted child. "First thing to­mor­row we'll pay him a vi­sit."

  And then Wen­ton's cell pho­ne rang. He ans­we­red on the se­cond ring.

  "What?"

  THIRTY-FIVE

  "Dr. Wen­ton? It's Nor­ma. Can I talk to you?"

  "No. Not now. It's a bad ti­me," sa­id Wen­ton.

  "I ne­ed to talk to you. It's pretty im­por­tant."

  "I'm su­re everyt­hing you do is re­al­ly im­por­tant," he sa­id flatly. "I'll talk to you la­ter."

  "You can't tre­at me li­ke that!" she blur­ted back. "What's the mat­ter with you?"

  "Calm down," he sa­id and hung up.

  Nor­ma con­ti­nu­ed to hold the re­ce­iver to her ear un­til the di­al to­ne stop­ped. She slowly lo­we­red it back to the crad­le-vir­tu­al­ly in shock.

  She sto­od and wal­ked out of her tiny bed­ro­om in­to the spar­sely fur­nis­hed li­ving ro­om. The small TV sat on an end tab­le she'd bo­ught at a ga­ra­ge sa­le. Her se­cond-hand co­uch smel­led of smo­ke, even tho­ugh she had ne­ver be­en cur­sed with the ha­bit. She re­ac­hed down on­to the flo­or and pic­ked up her wi­ne glass, ta­king a sip. That as­sho­le.

  If he thinks he can tre­at me li­ke a dumb bitch and I won't put up a fuss he's wrong. De­ad wrong. Pas­tor Wright­land was wrong, I ne­ver sho­uld ha­ve gi­ven him a se­cond chan­ce. She to­ok anot­her sip of her red wi­ne but pul­led the glass away too so­on and a drop spil­led down her chin. Fuck! The drop­let wa­ve­red for a mo­ment and then splas­hed on­to her whi­te shirt.

  "Oh for god­damn sa­ke!" she cri­ed, le­aping to her fe­et. She lo­oked for so­mew­he­re to set her glass. The lack of fur­ni­tu­re didn't pro­vi­de many op­ti­ons.

  She he­aded in­to the kitc­hen at the back of the apart­ment, next to the do­or. The only di­vi­si­on bet­we­en li­ving ro­om and kitc­hen was whe­re the vinyl met the hi­de­o­us be­ige car­pet.

  Nor­ma pla­ced her glass on the co­un­ter by the sink and tur­ned the tap on cold. The­re we­re no pla­tes in the sink. Everyt­hing was in or­der. Nor­ma al­ways kept or­der. The co­un­ter was vir­tu­al­ly empty ex­cept for the im­ma­cu­la­te sta­in­less ste­el blen­der ne­ar the sink.

  She le­aned over the co­un­ter and sco­oped cold wa­ter on­to the red sta­in. Slowly, the sta­in spre­ad but re­ta­ined its dark co­lo­ur. She sco­oped mo­re wa­ter but the sta­in sta­yed. She res­ted her el­bows on the ed­ge of the sink and slap­ped the tap off.

  Nor­ma sta­red at the sta­in. It was still spre­ading but it was ta­king on new cha­rac­te­ris­tics. It had a pat­tern, a de­fi­ni­ti­on that was fa­mi­li­ar. "What the hell?"

  The pat­tern mo­ved with li­fe. It pul­sed. It twis­ted. Nor­ma gas­ped and held her bre­ath. This can't be hap­pe­ning. She co­uldn't ta­ke her eyes away.

  And then sta­in the to­ok form: it was a pic­tu­re of an ani­mal. Her pet cat, Char­ming. I re­al­ly am lo­sing it.

  Her mind flas­hed. She'd not even tho­ught of her old cat for ye­ars. She had Prin­ce Char­ming when she was eight ye­ars old. He'd be­en such a ple­as- ant, easy-go­ing cat. And then she re­mem­be­red so­met­hing el­se.

  "Son of a bitch!" she scre­amed and sto­od. Be­ca­use of the cram­ped kitc­hen she crac­ked the back of her he­ad on the cup­bo­ard as she sto­od.

  "Ow, ow, ow," she mumb­led thro­ugh grit­ted te­eth and rub­bed her he­ad. She glan­ced back at the sta­in. It was now a hor­rib­le pic­tu­re of a cat she'd kil­led as a child. Even tho­ugh she'd lo­ved Char­ming, she kic­ked him in a fit of ra­ge one day af­ter scho­ol. The cat had li­ved anot­her we­ek with in­ter­nal ble­eding that ma­de him suf­fer hor­ribly.

  "This is crazy," she sa­id out lo­ud. Mic­ha­el Wen­ton is ma­king me crazy.

  That's it. Screw him. Screw him and all this bul­lshit.

  Nor­ma tur­ned to le­ave the kitc­hen but sud­denly her fo­ot ga­ve out and she stumb­led. Her ank­le rol­led and sent shocks of whi­te hot pa­in up her leg. A tas­te of me­tal fil­led her mo­uth ins­tantly as she top­pled to the flo­or. Te­ars clo­uded her eyes as she rol­led on­to her si­de and grip­ped her ank­le with both hands.

  She wa­iled and rol­led gently from si­de to si­de, trying to do so­met­hing to ease the tre­men­do­us sho­oting pa­in. She was su­re it was bro­ken.

  On the flo­or ne­ar her was a pa­ir of sho­es. She'd kic­ked them off when she'd ar­ri­ved ho­me, angry. She nor­mal­ly kept everyt­hing tuc­ked away in the clo­set but her an­ger at Wen­ton and her has­te to call him ma­de her ca­re­less. Fuc­kin' Mic­ha­el Wen­ton!

  It to­ok a few mi­nu­tes but her bre­at­hing fi­nal­ly slo­wed, the tas­te of me­tal dis­si­pa­ted, and she fo­und co­ura­ge eno­ugh to try stan­ding. As she did so she le­aned he­avily on the kitc­hen co­un­ter, trying to put most of her we­ight on the go­od fo­ot. Blo­od rus­hed in­to her ot­her ank­le and she mo­aned lo­udly.

  Every be­at of her he­art sent pul­sing pa­in thro­ugh her swel­ling ank­le.

  Nor­ma didn't know if her ank­le was re­al­ly bro­ken, but she knew she ne­eded mo­re wi­ne. She tho­ught she co­uld al
­most fe­el the ef­fects of her first few sips. She was al­re­ady slightly dizzy. When she re­ac­hed for the bot­tle, she he­ard a squ­e­ak. It was her hams­ter, Lady Ta­ra. She kept the ca­ge on one end of the kitc­hen co­un­ter.

  Nor­ma sta­red at the ca­ge. It lo­oked un­fa­mi­li­ar for a se­cond and she sho­ok her he­ad to cle­ar the stran­ge sen­sa­ti­on. "May­be you're just what I ne­ed," she sa­id qu­i­etly. "I think I for­got to fe­ed you ear­li­er be­ca­use of all the crap go­ing on. I'm so sorry, Lady."

  She flip­ped the top up and re­ac­hed in to gi­ve Lady Ta­ra a qu­ick pet. Lady nuz­zled in­to her open palm and Nor­ma scratc­hed her neck and ears.

  "I can still co­unt on you, at le­ast. Isn't that right Lady Ta­ra? You're still my best fri­end. I'll get you so­met­hing to eat."

  She was abo­ut to pull her arm out when Lady Ta­ra had twis­ted out of Nor­ma's hand and bit­ten hard in­to the flesh bet­we­en fin­ger and thumb. With qu­ick, de­ep bi­tes, the hams­ter dug its te­eth furt­her back un­til its mo­uth bul­ged.

  Nor­ma yan­ked her hand from the ca­ge, the hams­ter tra­iling be­hind. "Ow! Ow! Ow!" she scre­amed and vi­olently sho­ok her hand, trying to dis­lod­ge the ani­mal's jaw. The mo­ti­on sent drop­lets of blo­od spra­ying thro­ugh the air, le­ave stran­ge pat­terns on the flo­or and cup­bo­ards.

  "Lady Ta­ra, no!" she scre­amed, but the hams­ter held on. Nor­ma sho­ok it aga­in and aga­in as the pa­in ra­ged thro­ugh her hand. She step­ped back- wards and mo­re pa­in shot thro­ugh her. She'd put her full we­ight on her bad ank­le wit­ho­ut thin­king. The wa­ves of pa­in cras­hed thro­ugh her, sen­ding her to the flo­or. Ins­tinc­ti­vely, she re­ac­hed back to catch her­self and the­re was a stran­ge, soft fe­eling un­der her hand as she lan­ded. She qu­ickly re­ali­zed she'd lan­ded on top of the hams­ter. She pul­led her hand to her chest, trying not to see the open gas­hes che­wed ac­ross it. The hams­ter was rol­ling away, trying to find its fe­et. The fall had only knoc­ked the wind out of the lit­tle ro­dent.

  "You lit­tle pi­ece of shit!" she scre­amed, still crad­ling her hand. "You worth­less pi­ece of shit!"

  The hams­ter star­ted to run, but Nor­ma re­ac­hed out and grab­bed it ro­ughly aro­und its neck. She knew if she held it tightly eno­ugh at this ang­le it wo­uldn't be ab­le to turn its he­ad far eno­ugh to bi­te her aga­in.

  She bro­ught the strug­gling hams­ter clo­se to her fa­ce. "So you think you can mess with me too, just li­ke that bas­tard Wen­ton? You think you can do wha­te­ver you want to me and I'll just smi­le and ta­ke it? Fuck you!"

  Nor­ma ro­se on her go­od leg. She co­uld he­ar the hams­ter cho­king and gas­ping from the strength of her grip. She didn't ca­re. She ga­ve it an ext­ra squ­e­eze just to he­ar it squ­e­ak.

  She hop­ped to the co­un­ter and used her wo­un­ded hand to drag the blen­der clo­ser.

  "No one is go­ing to fuck with me any­mo­re!" she scre­amed, te­ars flo­od- ing her eyes.

  She flip­ped the top off the blen­der.

  "No one is go­ing to ta­ke ad­van­ta­ge of me any­mo­re. Not Mic­ha­el

  Wen­ton. Not an­yo­ne. And not yo, you fuc­kin' rat." Te­ars stre­amed down her fa­ce.

  She tos­sed the squ­e­aling, hyste­ri­cal hams­ter in­to the blen­der and jam­med down hard on the min­ce set­ting. Blo­od splat­te­red out, co­ating the in­si­de of the blen­der ins­tantly.

  She pul­sed the blen­der a few mo­re ti­mes and then stop­ped, ex­ha­us­ted.

  Sud­denly we­ak, only a bre­ath away from lo­sing cons­ci­o­us­ness, Nor­ma res­ted on the co­un­ter. She sta­red at the blo­odi­ed blen­der. A he­avy po­ol of li­qu­id so dark it was al­most black sat in the bot­tom.

  Her eyes slowly mo­ved up the blen­der. She was surp­ri­sed to see so­me- one's arm res­ting on the mac­hi­ne. It was her arm han­ging over the top of the mac­hi­ne, her hand mang­led in­si­de. She tri­ed to pull her hand out an in­ten­se pa­in stop­ped her. She pul­led aga­in and watc­hed as her wrist left the ca­vity of the blen­der. Pa­nic swel­led thro­ugh her as she tri­ed to un­ders­tand the tat­te­red strips of flesh that hung off the stump of her wrist.

  Nor­ma had no idea how her hand had got­ten in­si­de the blen­der. When she to­ok anot­her lo­ok at the blo­ody mess of skin and bo­nes, she col­lap­sed on­to the kitc­hen flo­or.

  The last thing she saw be­fo­re she slip­ped in­to un­cons­ci­o­us­ness was

  Lady Ta­ra. The lit­tle hams­ter ran past her, ali­ve and well.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Wa re­tur­ned to his apart­ment on Ing­lis ho­pe­ful that he and Wen­ton wo­uld get so­me use­ful in­for­ma­ti­on from Nick Stan­gos the next day.

  He was still stan­ding at his do­or lo­oking for his key when his cell pho­ne rang. Wa ho­ped it was Glo­ria. As he felt clo­se to the end of his se­arch for ans­wers, he felt re­ady to go back to his fa­mily.

  "Hel­lo?"

  "Ser­ge­ant Wa? This is Gary Wright­land."

  "Oh, what can I do for you?"

  "Can I see you? To­night? It's qu­ite im­por­tant."

  "Why, what's go­ing on?"

  "I just ne­ed to talk to you."

  Wa frow­ned. "Abo­ut what? Can it wa­it un­til to­mor­row. I'm pretty wi­ped out."

  "No, I'd rat­her not wa­it. I ne­ed to see you as so­on as pos­sib­le."

  Wa wi­ped a hand ac­ross his fo­re­he­ad. I su­re don't ne­ed this. "Just tell me what's go­ing on. If I ne­ed to, I'll co­me me­et you."

  "No," he sa­id sharply. "Don't co­me he­re. I'll just… It's re­al­ly just so­me- thing I tho­ught of. A dif­fe­rent way of lo­oking at what we we­re tal­king abo­ut."

  "Why don't I swing past the church la­ter to­mor­row mor­ning? Dr. Wen­ton and I are go­ing to see Nick Stan­gos in the mor­ning and then-"

  "Stan­gos! You're go­ing to see Nick Stan­gos."

  "Right. I'm sorry. I chec­ked on a few things and his na­me pop­ped up. I co­uldn't be­li­eve it. This Stan­gos cha­rac­ter might ha­ve be­en in­vol­ved in so­me shady de­alings with ECOR Phar­ma­ce­uti­cals."

  "And you're brin­ging Mic­ha­el Wen­ton?"

  "Yep. We're just go­ing to check out his story to­mor­row."

  "Don't talk to him," Gary bar­ked.

  "I'm sorry."

  "I me­an, Nick's crazy. You sho­uldn't talk to him. He'll just throw you off, con­fu­se everyt­hing."

  Wa was ta­ken aback by the pas­tor's odd be­ha­vi­o­ur and wan­ted to get off the pho­ne with him. "Lis­ten, are you go­ing to be at the church la­ter on to­mor­row mor­ning?"

  The pas­tor was qu­i­et be­fo­re he rep­li­ed. "Yes."

  "I'll see you then." He hung up be­fo­re Gary co­uld pro­test.

  "Every­body's got a fuc­kin' bolt lo­ose the­se days," he sa­id sha­king his he­ad. He fo­und his key and en­te­red his dingy lit­tle apart­ment.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Nick Stan­gos' ho­use lo­oked as tho­ugh it had be­en aban­do­ned ye­ars ago. The dup­lex was hid­den on a stre­et of ol­der ho­uses in va­ri­o­us sta­tes of dis­re­pa­ir.

  Nick's lawn ob­vi­o­usly hadn't be­en cut in we­eks and was lit­te­red with lit­tle yel­low buds. Flyers de­co­ra­ted the conc­re­te steps le­ading to his do­or. The cur­ta­ins in the li­ving ro­om we­re drawn tight.

  "He­re we go," Wa sa­id ra­ising his hands in re­luc­tant ac­qu­i­es­cen­ce. He tur­ned and knoc­ked hard on the do­or, ig­no­ring the cre­am-co­lo­ured do­or- bell, stre­aked in dirt.

  They wa­ited but the­re was no ans­wer. The­re wasn't even the so­und of mo­ve­ment be­hind the dark do­or.

  Wa knoc­ked aga­in. Still not­hing.

  "Nick! Nick Stan­gos. Open the do­or. We want to talk to you."

  No ans­wer.
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  Wen­ton sho­ok his he­ad, clo­sing his eyes. Fuc­kin' was­te of ti­me.

  "Open the do­or. We're he­re to talk to you abo­ut ECOR and the ELF we­apons." He lo­oked at Wa to con­firm the term ELF. Wa nod­ded. "We're go­ing fuc­kin' kick this do­or in if you don't open it."

  The­re was a lo­ud thump from so­mew­he­re in­si­de. They'd at­trac­ted so­me- one's at­ten­ti­on. So­on they he­ard the he­avy fo­ot­fal­ls of so­me­one ap­pro­ac­hing from be­hind the do­or. Wit­ho­ut war­ning, it was vi­olently pul­led open.

  "Who the hell are you? What do you know abo­ut the ELF?"

  A po­wer­ful smell of al­co­hol swept out of the ho­use and so­aked thro­ugh Wen­ton and Wa as they fa­ced Nick Stan­gos. He was a stocky, bal­ding man with de­ep, blo­ods­hot eyes. He blin­ked cons­tantly as he lo­oked out at them, his eyes unab­le to adj­ust to the mor­ning sun. He kept one hand in­si­de his open dress shirt, rub­bing his over­si­zed gut in slow circ­les.

  The in­si­de of the ho­use ma­de the out­si­de lo­ok li­ke a Mart­ha Ste­wart ma­ga­zi­ne spre­ad. Dirt flo­wed fre­ely ac­ross the flo­or, in­ter­rup­ted only by an obs­tac­le co­ur­se of empty li­qu­or bot­tles.

  The most no­tab­le fe­atu­re of the ho­me was the ela­bo­ra­te mac­hi­nery sur­ro­un­ding the do­or and every win­dow they en­co­un­te­red. At first, Wen­ton tho­ught it might ha­ve be­en a comp­lex, ho­me­ma­de se­cu­rity system, but it se­emed too int­ri­ca­te.

  Nick le­ad them in­to the kitc­hen, the only ro­om with ava­ilab­le se­ats. So­on they we­re all se­ated aro­und a che­ap tab­le.

  Wa didn't was­te any­ti­me. "What's go­ing on at ECOR, Nick?"

  Nick Stan­gos la­ug­hed as tho­ugh Wa had just fi­nis­hed tel­ling the fun­ni­est joke. "What do you think is go­ing on at ECOR?" he moc­ked.

  Wen­ton grit­ted his te­eth and for­ced him­self to lo­ok away from the slob of a man.

  Wa to­ok a de­ep, even bre­ath be­fo­re he res­pon­ded. "You've be­en imp­li­ca­ted in so­me fa­irly qu­es­ti­onab­le re­se­arch. Re­se­arch in­vol­ving a Web si­te. Ring any bells?"