Yearling Investigation Archives (Book 1): Sanguine

by Brittany Swigert

  “Don’t be so sure you will. I don’t know how many people are in here and I can’t remember the way out.” Kasparov replied.

  The hallway was eerie and desolate. The once white walls had browned in the absence of its tenants and bits of it had been further tarnished with the remnants of blood. Lights flickered as the water from the sprinklers got in to them making every move seem more futile than the last. Kasparov was right and Lofgren knew it. There was no guarantee they would get out of this, they were under armed, injured, and unprepared.

  They crept down the hall, carefully keeping their eyes out for anyone who may see them. The whole building seemed to bleed as the water from the sprinklers rinsed the evidence of Claudia’s atrocities from the wall. It collected at Lofgren’s feet and clung to his pants as he walked. It wasn’t long before the lights went out entirely making it harder for the men to see where they were going.

  Lofgren peered around a corner as he looked for an exit. Claudia was walking away from the men, gun in hand. Water ran down her back and dripped off her legs. He hated how beautiful she was as he watched her walk away.

  “Other way” Lofgren whispered carefully as he motioned to Kasparov to turn back. “It’s Claudia.”

  “I’ll fucking kill her.” Kasparov replied as he made his way to pursue her. Lofgren grabbed his arm and pulled him back before he was seen.

  “We have to go. There will be time to bring them down. This is not that time.” Lofgren reasoned as he pushed Kasparov back down the hall. He knew that without the proper weapons they stood no chance of killing Claudia or her men. Even Letty was likely still alive. Kasparov may have thought these people were just crazy cultists, but Lofgren knew the truth.

  They continued through the maze of a building until they heard approaching footsteps. He noticed a room to the left and slipped in silently followed by Kasparov and ducked below the glass window in the door. Lofgren carefully listened to the man walk by and out of ear shot before making his move to leave but Kasparov didn’t budge. He stood awestruck at the horrors before him.

  Lofgren turned around to see what had shaken his partner so badly. In that moment he was reminded that his partner had not been with him in previous cases. Kasparov had gone entirely pale and looked as if he would pass out. The smell set in as Lofgren tried to figure out what Kasparov would do. He hoped that he would hold it together long enough to get out of this.

  “Erik.” Kasparov whispered.

  “Yes, Scott?” He replied.

  “I’ll never let revenge make me forget what we are fighting for again. I don’t think I’ll ever forget what I have seen here.” Kasparov continued.

  “No, you won’t.” Lofgren confirmed as he looked around the room. Shelves lined three of the walls and were stocked with glass jars, filled with a red liquid. At least twenty three bodies had been heaped on to a pile in a corner of the room. Their throats had been slit and they looked to have been bled dry. The ground was slippery and covered in the crimson and brown colors of rot and decay.

  A symbol was repeated on the walls a countless number of times. It had been drawn in blood, paint, marker, and a substance that he didn’t want to identify. In the center of the back wall the largest symbol was displayed. Nails had been driven through what appeared to be intestine. It had been wrapped and secured in such a way that produced the shape. The words had been painted in blood.

  His partner looked to have been getting over the initial shock of what he had seen and had begun to heave. He had expected something like this, but he hadn’t thought of Kasparov. The man had been so calm and collected during their experience with Kliseman that Lofgren had begun to assume he was unshakable by violent situations.

  The smell in the room had become unbearable as Lofgren walked around inspecting the place. He had hoped to identify some of the bodies, but with the lights out and the corpses so badly mutilated he would be unable to make a clear connection between the dead and the missing people. These bodies seemed far more mutilated than the others had been in the past.

  It looked as if they had been kept alive longer in order to get the most out of them before they were thrown on to the pile. Lofgren wondered how many of the buildings rooms looked like this one did. In the past they used at least three rooms to discard of remains once they had served their purpose. There were more in this room than he was used to and considered that it may be the only room in use. He hoped it was.

  “Let’s get out of here, Kasparov.” Lofgren whispered as he opened the door and made his way down the hall. Everything was clear the rest of the way out, and they managed to find the front door quickly.

  On the other side they could hear two men talking. They seemed dissatisfied with the way Claudia had handled things in Tampa. One of them confided in the other that this was likely the end for them considering the organization had run out of resources. The other talked about leaving soon to make his own way in the world.

  Lofgren motioned for Kasparov to ready his knife. They would have to fight to get out after all and neither of them were in great shape. He intended to take them by surprise.

  A well placed kick sent the door flying open striking one guard as Kasparov rushed the one who stood in the open. He plunged his knife in to his enemy’s throat and stood his ground as Lofgren made his way out. The man that had been struck by the door had recovered from the impact and kicked the door back sending Kasparov to the ground. This left himself open for Lofgren to plunge his blade down through the top of the guards head.

  Their chance of escape was now something substantial as he heaved Kasparov off the ground and trudged out away from the building. In a few moments they were out of sight and Kasparov was back on his feet. Every step was agony for Lofgren. They carefully made their way back to Kasparov’s car.

  The walk was rough on both men as blood, water, and sweat rolled of their bodies. They needed to get away as quickly as they could. After a quarter of an hour they finally made it to Kasparov’s car to find that Claudia’s lackeys had gotten to it first. They watched as Rico and Nick poured gasoline over the rusted vehicle and threw a match igniting it.

  Lofgren pushed Kasparov in another direction to steer him away from the people who had just destroyed his car. In the back of his mind he hoped that insurance would cover burn damage. He imagined Kasparov’s hospital bills must already be expensive.

  The men managed to make their way out of the neighborhood in just over an hour and a half. Back at the road Kasparov called a cab to take them to Randall’s to regroup.

  Ten minutes later a car arrived with Cartenour Cabs across the side in cheap vinyl. As the men got in Kasparov rattled off Randall’s address to the driver who turned to look at the two men.

  Lofgren wondered if he would report this to the police or insist on taking them to the hospital. He wasn’t prepared to bribe a taxi driver or to threaten one after what he had been through. He was wet, tired, and in a great deal of pain. The last thing he needed was a concerned citizen taking an interest in his situation.

  “I guess the competition bought the building.” The driver said laughing.

  “Something like that.” Kasparov replied with a halfhearted smile at Lofgren. He had clearly missed something but decided to let it go for now. He was just glad to be on the way out of the hell hole he had plunged in to. Next to him Kasparov had dug out his cigarettes from the cargo pockets on his pants and lit two, handing one to Lofgren.

  “I know you’re trying to quit, but after what you’ve been through I thought you would want one. I have a couple of your things by the way. The sick bitch wanted to motivate me I think.”

  Kasparov produced three small boxes. Lofgren knew at once what they contained and was both disturbed and thankful that Kasparov had saved them for him. He was still unsure of just what Kasparov could handle and hoped that he could follow through with what they would have to do next.

  XIII.

  The night had consumed any remaining daylight and by the time the cab stopp
ed in front of Randall’s house it was well after midnight. Kasparov paid the driver and thanked him for his discretion before making his way to the front door. It was likely Randall wouldn’t be home and he scolded himself for not calling ahead. He had been so caught up in everything that it never occurred to him. Despite his concerns, he raised a hand and knocked hard against the door.

  From inside he heard a woman giggling and footsteps approaching the door. Kasparov knew that whatever was going on inside, he was interrupting something. The door opened to reveal Randall standing in the doorway covered only by a sheet around his waist. A beautiful dark haired woman rounded the corner in the hall way and called him back to bed. She had enough modesty to put on what was barely underwear, but not much else. Kasparov envied Randall as he gawked at the girl.

  “Sorry to interrupt, I need to use your bathroom and maybe your kitchen too.” Kasparov said with more sincerity than his voice suggested.

  “Holy shit, Scott!” Randall exclaimed. “What the fuck happened to him?”

  “It’s a long story.” Kasparov replied as he made his way in to the house. He nodded at the woman in the hallway who now sported a look of fear mixed with intrigue. She had likely just seen Lofgren and didn’t know how to respond. “He’s going to be just fine. Don’t worry.”

  “Thank you for taking us in. We weren’t sure where we could go and I need to rest.” Lofgren said to Randall who was still standing in awe of the man in front of him. He pointed in the direction Kasparov was walking. “Bathroom this way then?”

  “Yes. Down the hall and to the left. Follow him.” Randall replied before going to explain things to his visitor.

  Randall’s house had always interested Kasparov. Posters of different Japanese animation shows hung on many of the walls. Memorabilia of the cartoons Randall watched as a child sat in glass cases on shelves that had been erected for just that. It always reminded Kasparov of a museum of childhood wonders. Further in the house he passed Randall’s recording room. Inside various instruments and hardware littered every surface and wall. The room even had a sound proof booth in the middle for silencing outside noise.

  Kasparov admired how committed Randall was to his interests as he recalled his own home with its barren walls and empty spaces. He had tried to find a hobby in the past, but the only thing that ever seemed to keep him entertained took place in bars and on stripper poles. He was a man of simple pleasures after all.

  The bathroom was cleaner than most Kasparov had been in and he was thankful for it. He turned on the tap and began washing his hands thoroughly. He needed to do all he could to discourage any infection that might befall Lofgren. Looking in the mirror he saw his own reflection and flinched. The man he saw was a part of him that he never knew existed. Blood covered his face and hands. His chest was dark with sweat and dirt. Parts of his hair stuck together and had become matted with the gory proof of his misdeeds. Kasparov wondered if it had all been for the better.

  There was a black rag resting on the edge of the sink. He moistened it with water from the tap and wiped his face. Dried blood and dirt clung to him with little give making him look even worse. He threw the rag in the sink and opened the medicine cabinet. Inside he found gauze, first aid tape, alcohol, and bandages.

  “Randall!” Kasparov shouted. “Can you come help me with something?”

  “What do you need man?” Randall asked. He had been followed in by the woman he had been enjoying the evening with who was now fully dressed. “I’ll do whatever I can.”

  “I need scissors, a plastic bag, two towels, a needle, and thread.” Kasparov requested.

  “Towels are in the cabinet next to the toilet and I don’t have any sewing stuff. I can get the rest of the stuff from the kitchen.” Randall told Kasparov with disappointment.

  “I have a small sewing kit in my purse.” The woman interjected.

  “Excellent! Go get them please.” Kasparov replied as he set to work in front of Lofgren. He untied the makeshift bandages that had been wound around Lofgren’s leg.

  “We’re going to get you fixed up. As best as we can anyway. You should probably go to the hospital as soon as you can.”

  “I intend to.” Lofgren said with a pained smile. He had clearly been struggling and seemed happy to finally be out of Claudia’s clutches and getting medical attention; even if it was mediocre at best.

  Kasparov looked over Lofgren to survey the damage. He would need stitches on his middle finger as well as the stab wounds on his leg and side. There was no hope of salvaging the lost eye, so he resolved to pack the cavity with gauze and cover it. The cuts on his body would need to be scrubbed but Kasparov decided Lofgren could do that himself.

  Randall and his companion returned with the objects that had been requested. Kasparov pulled out a lighter and sterilized the needle as best as he could before threading it. He wished he could give Lofgren an anesthetic for the procedure but the only thing he had was his medication and his flask. He offered both to Lofgren who grabbed the flask over the pills.

  “Are you ready for this?” Kasparov asked as he cleaned the area he was about to sew up.

  “Do it.” Lofgren answered after empting the contents of the flask and tossing it aside. The men both seemed nervous and Kasparov wasn’t used to stitching people up. Randall and his friend watched with a blend of concern and excitement as he began. They stood there all night.

  Lofgren pulled away at first when the needle punctured his leg but Kasparov was able to steady him. The next attempt was successful as the needle was guided through and over to the other side. Unsure of how many stitches to do or how much space to leave between them, he made several tight stitches and slowly drew the skin back together. He tied off the ends and bandaged the area before doing the same to his side. The middle finger proved to be a greater challenge and it required more precision. After some time he had managed to sew the area in a way he hoped would heal properly.

  Kasparov then tried to analyze Lofgren’s eye socket. He had no idea what he was supposed to do and wished they could just go to the hospital. It wasn’t worth the risk of being caught. Without proper medical knowledge all he could do was pack the socket with gauze, similar to the way they lance boils in hospitals, tape it up, and hope for the best. He tilted Lofgren’s head back, holding open his eyelids, and tried to ignore the sounds of agony as he poured alcohol in to the cavity. He quickly layered gauze until the socket was full and taped the eye.

  “Are you going to be ok?” Kasparov asked Lofgren.

  “I’m not sure. I have never been permanently injured. There is likely going to be a psychological change once all this sets in and it will depend heavily on how that goes. I can’t say I’m optimistic, but I know eventually I will put this into a different perspective.” Lofgren replied.

  Kasparov admired Lofgren for his ability to always understand what he was going through as he cut the plastic bags in to smaller squares. He took one and placed it over the injured finger securing it with tape before placing another over the wounds on his leg, side, and the eye cavity.

  “This will keep the water out.” Kasparov explained. “Take this towel to dry off with. I’m going to get you some clothes.”

  He walked out of the bathroom and beckoned Randall to follow. Back in the kitchen Kasparov filled a glass of water and took one of his pills. He had been so concerned with Lofgren he had stopped minding his own pain and it was creeping back again. “Randall, do you still have that bag of stuff I left here?”

  “Yeah! It’s in the guest room.” He replied. “Do you want me to go and get it?”

  “Not yet. I need to run out to get Lofgren something to wear. Neither you nor I are tall enough to lend him something of ours. Can I borrow your car?” Kasparov answered.

  “That’s cool. What happened to your car? I noticed you pulled up in a cab” Randall questioned.

  “Claudia’s men set it on fire.” Kasparov replied. “I’ve had that car for years. It didn’t deserve to be torched.”


  “I’m sorry. Did you say Claudia burned your car?” Randall exclaimed.

  “Yes. Oh, Claudia is a crazy murderous bitch by the way. I knew there was something that bothered me about the night I was shot. It had been on my mind since I arrived at the hospital. I finally remembered what it was. She had been smiling. I should have known she was involved.” Kasparov explained as Randall handed his keys to him.

  “Oh shit.” Randall exclaimed.

  “Right. I’m just going to run down the road. Do you need anything?” Kasparov asked.

  “No, I’m good here. And Melissa is just waiting on her cab now.” Randall replied.

  The air outside was bitter. The rising sun painted the wet roads a deep orange. Its light made it hard for Kasparov to see where he was going. He reached for his notebook to write down a quick note about how much more he appreciated seeing the sunrise after all that had happened but couldn’t find it. It took a moment to remember he had thrown it away back at the hotel. Something in him knew it was the best thing to have done. He couldn’t write about what he had done to Kliseman, or what they were going to have to do to Claudia and her men.

  Kasparov drove quickly to the discount store that had opened near Randall’s house. He found a pair of black pants and a matching button up shirt that looked like they would fit Lofgren. He also located a red tie. As he waited to be checked out he noticed a black vest similar to the one his partner wore and decided to get it as well. He normally would have settled for a t-shirt and shorts, but he understood a bit of what had been said about the time after the trauma being important in affecting psychological change and he wanted Lofgren to feel like himself.

  When he walked back in the house Lofgren was already out of the shower and standing around in a pair of boxer shorts Randall had offered him. He had bandaged his chest and back and was drinking coffee as he waited.

  “I brought you some clothes to wear today. I don’t know how safe your place is.” Kasparov told Lofgren handing him the bag from the store. His partner inspected the contents then went to get dressed. Randall walked in to the living room with a cup of coffee and handed it to Kasparov.