by Roy Bright
It lets go of the body and the dead man’s head hits the floor with a sickening thud.
“Now, what to do with you? Something fun, I think.”
It laughs. Short at first, then longer, deeper ones. It bends down, grabbing the top of Father Mallory’s head with one hand and with no effort at all, lifts his entire corpse into the air, peering into his face.
“Oh, Henry, sometimes I even amaze myself at my comic genius. I know exactly where I will put you. It is just too funny a jape to pass up.” It continues to laugh as darkness engulfs the dead priest’s body. The shadow retreats down the alleyway, the light once again returning to paint it in a miserable, grey tapestry.
Eleven
Saturday 10 November 2012, 06:32
Zenaku Hotoke sits at the end of a long, electronic executive boardroom table situated in the penthouse of The Tonada Corporation building; steepled fingertips resting between his lips. A man of style and class, he is dressed in a manner few men can afford; a light blue Alexander Amosu suit with a pure white shirt, light pink tie and brown Testoni shoes with golden buckles. He looks immaculate seated at the head of the one piece of furniture in the room of brilliant white walls and marble flooring so polished that you can see your face in it. Behind and to the left of him, New York City draws an impressive skyline through large plate glass windows. He stares down the table at the two men sat opposite him.
Kento sits in a confident manner but with a concerned expression, arms folded, right leg crossed over his left. Masaki’s demeanor however, is exactly the opposite. Nervous, his eyes dart back and forth around the room, settling on that of his Master’s across the table before moving off elsewhere, desperate to avoid the man’s gaze.
Zenaku smiles. “So, let me see if I understand this correctly. You were sent out to capture a six-year-old little girl. You had her cornered, weeping and terrified for almost twenty minutes and yet, still failed to carry out your task. Not only that, you thought you were meant to… kill her?”
Silence. An uneasy, nervous silence.
Masaki plucks up enough courage to break it, “Well, you see, Boss, Judas turned up and—”
Zenaku rockets up out of his chair, slamming the palms of his hands onto the desk. “Shut up! Shut your fucking mouth. It was a rhetorical question, you stupid fucking dog!”
He bows his head and says nothing more.
Zenaku turns his attention to Kento. “You should know better. Tell me,” he sits back down in his chair, “what went wrong?”
Kento remains calm, his arms, and legs still folded. He steals a glance at his bowing partner before replying. “Well, my Lord, I made the mistake of not carrying out the task myself.” He takes a long deep breath, “Iscariot arrived and took the girl before we could grab her.”
Masaki glances at his partner, puzzled.
Kento glances back and sighs, “So that would make me to blame.”
Zenaku stares at his Lieutenant and then vociferates whilst standing once again. He thrusts his right hand forwards, propelling Masaki against the wall still seated in his chair and the demon smashes against it. “We need to find this child and fast, so you two fucking idiots had better get a location on her and get this done quickly or He will lose faith in us and send others and that will not reflect well on our standing. Do I make myself perfectly clear?” He glares at the two men.
Kento bows.
Masaki is unable to respond; his broken body attempting to put itself back together.
“Now, pick that piece of shit up. Remind it of how the job should be done and get out there and find that fucking child.”
Kento unfolds his arms and legs, stands and bows to his master once more. Turning, he walks over to his hapless sidekick.
Zenaku taps his right index finger against an area of the desk and a panel slides upwards. He pulls out a cigarette from the panel and a small flame clicks out from the side. Leaning over, he lights it then taps the panel on its top surface and it slips back into position with the same motion as it appeared. “Oh and Kento,” he says, exhaling.
He turns to face his Master.
“No more fuck-ups. You capture the child. Understood?”
Kento nods for a final time, turns around, pulls Masaki to his feet and drags him out of the room through the now opening electronic staircase in the floor leading down into another room.
Zenaku sits back down, contemplating the area in which the two men had sat. Raising and lowering his cigarette to and from his mouth, inhaling and exhaling smoke, his thoughts turn to Judas. It has been a long time since he and Iscariot locked swords and wonders if he should carry out the job himself. He relishes another match with this man, relishes the thought of yet again taking something from the wandering Jew.
As he contemplates what he would do to him should he get the chance, the atmosphere in the room changes; abrupt, foreboding, menacing. Darkness floods into it, filling every corner, engulfing, commandeering.
Zenaku throws what remains of his cigarette onto the floor and sits upright, clearing his throat into his right hand.
The darkness subsides and retreats as the room readdresses itself. It shrinks into one point in the corner opposite Zenaku and takes shape, dissipating into the form of a man.
“Master,” Zenaku says, swallowing hard, “I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”
A handsome, black haired man, dressed in an immaculate black pinstripe suit strolls towards him.
He observes the decor. “What a true minimalist you are, Zenaku,” he says, smiling, his English accent emitting a cheery optimism, “Not enough going on in here for my taste though I’m afraid but, then again I am partial to much more chaos in my life.”
He reaches the end of the table just in front of Zenaku and hops onto it, sitting, grinning. “So, my old friend, update me on the situation with ‘The Light.’”
Zenaku looks down, nods and attempts to speak.
“You fucking lost her,” the man interrupts, his face contorting into a grimace of pure evil. “You, my old friend, are trying my fucking patience.” All at once, his appearance returns to its original form. “Well, never mind, accidents can and do happen.” He smiles. “Tell you what, why don’t I bring in some outside talent for you, help you out a little, get you and your boys back on track, whaddya say?”
Zenaku nods. “Whatever… you… wish… my Lord.”
“Good! Then it’s settled. We shall bring in some guys and bolster your numbers.” He raises his right fist into the air in triumphant jubilation.
Zenaku nods, nervously.
He stares at Zenaku for a short time looking him up and down. “Tell me, old friend, why do you persist with this Japanese look. Haven’t you grown tired of it yet?”
Zenaku settles in his chair, his confidence growing a little, “Oh, I don’t know, Master. I guess I just like this form, there is something cool yet dangerous about the Japanese that I find most… engaging,” he smiles.
“Ah, well, each to their own, I suppose.” He hops off the table, back to a standing position, readdresses his suit and walks back to the corner from where he had originated. “Right, mate,” he turns to look at Zenaku, “I’ll get the lads in to give you a hand and you make sure you bring that bitch to me no later than Sunday morning.” He smiles once again. “Oh, and I’m not quite sure how this little miscommunication happened, but I’m pretty certain I said I needed the girl alive and yet,” he points to the position in which Kento and Masakai were sat, “I’m kind of getting the vibe that those two fucking clowns almost killed her.”
Zenaku sighs, “I have reminded them, pointedly of that fact, my Lord. You are correct, they are fucking clowns.”
The man claps his hands together. “Right, well, good stuff then.” He smiles again. “Oh, and one very last thing, mate. Would you be a dear and bring Iscariot along with her. By all means chop his head off a few times beforehand, you know… for old times’ sake and all that but, I think it’s time that young man was in the place he’s
supposed to be, don’t you?”
Zenaku grins. “I couldn’t agree more, my Lord.”
He claps his hands together, nods and smiles back at him for a final time, then steps into the corner of the room. “Well, you have yourself, a very nice day, my Japanese friend, and I’ll see you real soon, yeah?”
With that, the room once again embraces the darkness. It floods into each and every inch of it and, as before, subsides in the same manner as it arrived.
The Darkness Man is gone.
Zenaku pulls a tiny cellphone out of the breast pocket of his suit and speed dials Kento’s number.
Kento answers.
“Change of plan. You’re getting company on this job and again, make sure you remember that you are to bring the girl in alive. One other thing: he wants Iscariot too.”
There is a moment of silence.
“Understood.” Kento replies.
The line goes dead.
Zenaku Hotoke walks over to the plate glass window on the left-hand side of the room. He looks out over New York City as the sun starts to rise and paint its glow across the landscape. He smiles. “Iscariot, my friend, I am greatly looking forward to our time together once again… greatly indeed.”
Twelve
Saturday 10 November 2012, 09:23
Gary hated the drive to Emily’s. He had set off early this morning on purpose as she was never a morning person. She would be much easier to deal with at the start of a day, without doubt wanting to get back into bed for her Saturday morning lie in. She could never understand his reasons for not wanting to visit their son’s grave and would go on and on at him about how disrespectful it was not to visit Jacob once a year, just to remind him of how much he was loved. He hated having that conversation with her. Why couldn’t she just get it through her thick skull that it was just too much to bear, going there once again to sit at his graveside and be reminded of how he wasn’t with them anymore? It was the worst thing he had ever had to do in his entire life, bury his own child and he hated that place for it. And how dare she accuse him of being disrespectful? Not a day would go by when he didn’t think about him, not a single day. Jacob wasn’t in that place anyway. Whatever lay in that grave had long since ceased to be his son.
The only place Jacob resided now was in his heart and mind. There is no afterlife, no paradise. Therefore, he point-blank refuses to visit the gravesite with Emily each year, watching her go through the motions of putting toys under his headstone, reading him his favorite stories. It was madness. The boy was dead; dead and gone, and only his memory remained in the hearts and minds of those who loved him. He knew, without a doubt, in his own mind, that there was no heaven, there was no God, how could there be? A fair and just God wouldn’t deny a young, innocent boy the chance to grow up, get an education, fall in love, live his life and grow old with children of his own. A fair and just God wouldn’t have allowed a driver, who was not only drunk, but eight times over the limit and a repeat offender, to smash into his wife’s car and kill his boy, whilst the sick bastard walked away without so much as a scratch. However, if such a God did exist, well, then he would have more than a few choice words to say, but he knew beyond question, that God did not exist.
He is forced to drop his sun visor as the early morning rays are dazzling for November, so bright in fact that his sunglasses alone aren’t sufficient enough protection against its glare. He is adjusting the visor when the police scanner squawks into life, a female voice grabbing his attention.
“Unit fourteen, unit fourteen this is dispatch, over.”
He grabs the radio handset. “Dispatch, this is unit fourteen, go ahead.”
“Hey, Gary, where are you at the moment?”
“Hey, Sheila. Err, I am on the 27, about… five miles outside Southampton, heading to Emily’s. I gotta drop off a few things, you know, for the… thing… this time of year.”
The radio goes silent for a second.
He breaks the silence, “Why? Is there something you need me for back there that can’t wait?” He is praying for that to be the case. He could do with another excuse not to go today. He would go tomorrow.
“Well, Gary, not over here, no. This is kinda weird but you are about a mile from where we have just received a call from a Motel owner, a Mr. Ezekiel Prescott. He says, he thinks the car and people you are looking for checked in last night.”
Every single hair on his body stands on end.
“How the hell did he find out about the car, Sheila?”
“Well, the Captain got the media involved late last night as soon as you issued the APB on the make and model. They ran the story on the late night and early morning news reports and it looks like we caught a break.”
“Okay, copy that, gimme the exact location, please.”
“Yeah, sure. It’s the Atherbright Motel, just off County Road 39 west of—”
“I know the place, Sheila. Jesus Christ, weird is definitely true, I am quite literally, right goddamn there. Call it in to Southampton PD and place me as senior on scene.”
“Copy, unit fourteen, dispatch out.”
The radio goes dead and Gary throws the handset onto his passenger seat. He knew the motel well, had driven past it many times on his way to Emily’s and imagined how many busts he could make just by knocking on each door. The hotel was a cesspit, as were the people who stayed in it. Why the hell had the guy brought the kid here? Somewhere, deep inside of him, he knew that whoever had grabbed Charlotte had done so to protect her, but he couldn’t figure out why. Was it her father, an uncle or a cousin maybe? Whoever it was would have to be taken into custody so they could find out what the hell was going on, the child’s savior or not. He remembers the conversation he had with Captain Banks in his office.
His superior had been very explicit in the fact he wanted this one wrapped up in record time. Finding the girl, and bringing in all those responsible for the young officer’s death, was the department’s top priority. I want this done in forty-eight hours, Gary, he had told him. No excuses, I want answers on this one!
Banks was right; there was no room for excuses. The whole case had such fantastical properties to it that he wondered if they would ever get all of the answers or indeed, would want to know as elements of this case terrified him, as it had the coroner.
He passes a sign reading three miles to Southampton and sees the motel looming up ahead. He signals right, and pulls into the parking lot, rolling up to the motel reception. He performs his routine ritual of grabbing his gun from the glove compartment, getting out of the car and holstering it on his belt, his badge following, then surveying the immediate vicinity, checking for anything that would strike him as odd. This is a routine he has performed since his rookie days on the beat with Paul, the only fresh introduction to it since becoming a detective was the need to fish out his gun and badge. It was almost robotic and pre- programmed in nature. He adds a slight twist to the routine today by removing his sunglasses, giving them a clean and placing them back on his head.
He walks over to the reception; it’s empty. He notices a small bell on the counter, approaches it, and pushes it once. No answer. He pushes it again, still no answer. He pushes it a third, fourth, fifth. He sighs and is about to hammer it for a sixth time when he hears a groan from a room behind the counter.
The same man who greeted Judas appears.
“Good morning. Mr. Ezekiel Prescott, is it? I’m Detective Cross, you reported a car we may be looking for?”
“You’s a cop?
“That’s… what I said, Mr. Prescott, I’m Detective Cross, West Babylon PD.” Jesus Christ, is this goddamn redneck for real, he thinks to himself.
“Well, if yer’s a cop, show me yer badge!”
He rolls his eyes and sighs then pulls back the left pleat of his suit jacket to reveal his badge. “Good enough?”
“Well,” the man drawls, “You cant’s be too careful these days, cans you?”
“I guess not, Sir, no.” This guy is a moron. �
��The car, Mr. Prescott, you wanna tell me about the car?”
“Well, Sir, I was watchin’ the TV this morning when the news lady sez you lot are lookin’ for a black Ford Mustang.”
“That’s correct, Mr Prescott, we are, and any information you can provide me with on that car and its occupants, right now, will be of the highest value to me. Do you know where it is?”
“Well, sure.” He pauses.
Gary raises his eyebrows. “Well… where, Mr. Prescott?”
“Rounds the back, they is in Room 13.”
He stares at the motel owner for a few seconds. The hairs are back up and the goose bumps returned. “Are you absolutely sure, Mr. Prescott?”
“Course I’m sure’s, I only just checked on it not ten minutes ago. They ain’t’s moved.”
13
He wakes from a dream, the last remnants of which dissipate into the back of his mind as consciousness in the present world takes its place. He had always hated that dream, but it wasn’t a dream, it was a memory. A recurring memory of a deed so terrible, it would torture him forever. He had always hated that dream.
He looks to his left and checks the clock. Saturday 10 November: 03:39. He looks to his right to check on the sleeping child tucked beneath the sheets beside him. She is gone. He sits bolt upright and glances over to the bathroom. The light is out. She isn’t in there. He panics, grabbing one of the Berettas from under his pillow. He thinks for a split second and then looks under the bed. She is fast asleep, clutching her beloved teddy bear, moaning at whatever dream has her in its grip right now. He sighs with relief and flops back on the bed, arms outstretched by his side. “They mostly come at night, mostly,” he quips. He laughs. “Thanks for turning me into Ripley, Newt!” He laughs again. “Smart kid.”
He contemplates waking her, drawing her out of her nightmare if that’s what it is. He muses that it must be, as he imagines it could not be anything good after what the poor kid has seen in the last ten hours. He decides against it. She will need all the rest she can get over the next two days and all the strength she can muster. He glances at the weapon, then returns it to its hiding place under his pillow. Climbing out of bed, he walks over to the bathroom and switches on the light. He stares at the horrible toilet, shaking his head, then walks over to it. He places the palm of his right hand against the wall and relieves himself, yawning. He flushes it and is immediately forced to kick at the bathroom door to close it as the toilet growls into life, whooshing water into the bowl at high pressure. The door hits the frame then flies back open. “Goddamit,” he moans and peers around the door to see if the monstrous toilet had awoken the child. It had not. He sighs with relief, turning to the sink and twisting the hot water tap. Nothing! He rolls his eyes and sighs once more then twists the cold water tap. The water erupts from the faucet with the same venom as displayed by the toilet, splashing his tee shirt and jeans in the process. “For fuck’s sake!” he grumbles, turning the tap back to draw off some of the force. He shakes his head and then washes his hands. Still, it was good to have clean water to wash in. It has been a good few months since he has enjoyed that little luxury and that had been in the toilets of the soup kitchen he visited now and then for a meal; they were horrible, much more so than here and not a place to enjoy cleaning oneself. He went to the kitchen now and then, to observe. He didn’t need to eat; his body not really requiring sustenance, he ate for enjoyment than anything else, having managed to control the ill feeling of hunger hundreds of years ago as he had the restrictions of physical pain. Sure, it hurt, but it didn’t interfere with his abilities. No, he had just liked to sit there watching people go about their business. Whether it had been the other bums or the kitchen staff themselves - the good people that they were – he had just watched them, thinking, imagining their stories and the misfortunes that had brought them to that place. Whatever mistakes it was that had those poor fools on the ropes of life, it couldn’t have been as bad as his.