The Acceptance

by L. L. Foster

  “No.” Aunt Dory, never knowing when to shut up, asked, “But doesn’t Oren need us, too?”

  “Not anymore. Oren can be anyone he wants, and he can start over anywhere he wants.”

  “But . . . we know things about him.”

  “He knows the same things about us! Before he’d let us blab to anyone, he’d kill us in our sleep. Now shut up about it and do what you’re told, what Oren tells you to do. Soon he’ll have another playmate for us. Won’t that make you happy?”

  Glee tinged her voice when Aunt Dory said, “Yes. Yes, that’d be perfect. I can’t wait. I hope Oren bags a body for us soon.”

  “Trust me. He’s good. He knows what he’s doing. It won’t be long now.”

  Thanks to that last volley of compliments, Oren’s fury faded. They respected him and what he could do. They nearly revered him. Because of that, he’d let them live.

  For now.

  But Uncle Myer was right. He no longer needed either of them. Living without them wouldn’t be his choice right now. He liked things the way they were. But if he heard Dory blabbing about females again, he’d cut her fat throat and watch her gurgle to death.

  Oren pictured it in his mind: Dory’s fat face jiggling with fear, her blood running warm and wet down her flesh, her life slowly draining away until finally, her eyes went flat and empty. Yes.

  He’d enjoy that.

  He’d enjoy that a lot.

  It was something to think about. For the future. When he got bored.

  Luckily for Dory, he had other, more pertinent things to attend to right now.

  Chapter 10

  Stationed out front of the flophouse, mirrored sunglasses reflecting some of the late-afternoon sunshine, Gaby slumped against the outer wall. Gaze ever watchful, senses attuned to any misdeed, she heard Jimbo raise his voice and turned her head to listen.

  He issued orders to the hookers, demanding that they move up the block to get more business.

  Stupid prick. Lazily rousing herself, Gaby climbed to her feet, dusted off her ass, and looked toward Jimbo with a caustic intensity she wanted him to feel.

  Uneasily, his gaze slithered her way. He ignored her notice and went back to berating the women, who hesitated to budge from the safety of Gaby’s realm.

  She’d spooked them all, being deliberately graphic in her depiction of the dead woman’s body in the river, and the attempted abduction of Bliss. She wanted them to be scared enough that they’d defy Jimbo’s orders in favor of their own safety.

  It worked, as now all the women packed together and refused to budge.

  Trying to brazen his way past Gaby’s disapproval, Jimbo straightened to his full, meager height and raised a fiduciary fist at Alma.

  “I wouldn’t.”

  Jimbo redirected his anger at Gaby. “Stay the fuck out of this.”

  Pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head to sear him with the full impact of her hostility, Gaby strolled closer to the contretemps. “You and I need to have a talk, Jimbo.”

  “Fuck that. You might’ve spooked Carver with your witchy mumbo jumbo bullshit, but I’m not buying it.”

  Witchy mumbo jumbo? Seeing the fear in Jimbo’s eyes, Gaby decided hey, whatever works. She stepped closer. “You do buy it, Jimbo. Even now, your pulse is sputtering and you’re getting sweaty.”

  “It’s hot out here!”

  “Wise up, Jimbo. What good will dead hookers do you? As long as they’re close by, I can keep them safe. But if you scatter them, I can’t be everywhere—”

  He slashed a hand through the air, coming within a millimeter of striking Gaby. She didn’t flinch, didn’t move other than to narrow her eyes, and that gave him visible pause.

  He gulped, and argued, “One dead hooker doesn’t put the rest in danger.”

  Fed up with his recusant stupidity, her gaze level with his, Gaby tsked. “You couldn’t be more wrong, dumb ass. The same person who killed Lucy also tried to get to Bliss. He wants another body to play with. Then he’ll want another after that. And after that, too.”

  “Unless you stop him? Right.” Jimbo tried to shove her out of his space, but Gaby didn’t budge an inch, and that, more than anything else, washed the color from his face. “Look, you don’t even know for sure it was the same guy after Bliss.”

  “I know.”

  “How’s that possible? Bliss doesn’t even know who came after her.” He tried for a laugh that fell flat. “I heard that one minute she says it was a guy, and the next it was a woman. You know what I think? She’s fucked up and saying whatever she needs to say so she can keep resting on her lazy ass.”

  Deliberately bumping her chest into his, Gaby snarled through her teeth, “You want me to kill you, Jimbo, is that it?”

  “God damn, bitch. Bring it down a notch, will you? I’m just saying—”

  “You’re saying all the wrong things.”

  Gaby’s knife, which she’d withdrawn from her sheath without Jimbo even noticing, pressed against his balls. The second he realized the placement of the blade, his eyes bulged in terror.

  Nudging the knife snug against him, Gaby said, “What I want you to say is that you comprehend the seriousness of the threat. I want you to say that you won’t do anything to put any women at risk, especially these women who look to you for protection. I want you to acknowledge that I will get the bastard doing this, but until then, you’ll damn well do as you’re told—or suffer the consequences.”

  Beads of sweat rolled down Jimbo’s temple. “You’re fucking insane.”

  “Bet on it. Insane enough to castrate you without a single qualm.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed hard. “Jesus, Gaby. I . . . I gotta make my money.”

  Gaby thought about slicing him, just a little, just enough to gain compliance. Her razor-sharp blade would cut through his denim as cleanly as surgical steel sliced flesh.

  She pondered the idea—and then she felt it, the transuding of depravity into her being.

  He was near.

  Triumph ripped through her before the calling could devour her.

  She wouldn’t wait for God’s command. Not this time.

  She’d hone her omnipotent numen and seek out the evil on her own recognizance.

  Under her own tutelary power.

  She’d be in charge.

  “Jesus, bitch, you’re cutting me!”

  Oh hell. Refocusing on the idiot before her, Gaby withdrew the knife a safe distance from his crotch. “Do we understand each other, Jimbo?”

  Hands cupping his jewels, he hissed, “Yeah, sure. Whatever. Just back the fuck off.”

  She gave him one more long look, but in light of this new challenge, Jimbo meant little enough to her. As Gaby reached back to replace her knife in the sheath, Jimbo struck out, intending to slug her straight in the face.

  Fool.

  Gaby dodged the blow, caught his arm, and wrenched it behind his back. His spine bowed as she added pressure to his wrist. “You would dare, Jimbo?”

  Defiant even in the grip of pain, he shook his head. “You’re making me look like a chump in front of everyone.”

  “No,” Gaby said, and needing expedient measures, she twisted hard enough to make him yell out in agony. “You did that to yourself.”

  Releasing him with a shove, she stepped away.

  The whores ran over to Jimbo, offering sympathy and assistance—and getting cursed for their efforts. Gaby walked away from them all. She didn’t want to be followed, so she didn’t dare run.

  The invading affliction boiled to the surface, but didn’t yet take over. She had time.

  She’d get him. Or her.

  And when she did, God Himself wouldn’t interfere.

  Nervousness kept Oren walking fast down the third dark, narrow alley. He had to make it quick to hedge off possible harm to himself. So far, he hadn’t had much luck. Evening would prove a better time for his goal, but he lacked the courage necessary to wander the alleys, in the slums, during the dark of the
night.

  Like engorged veins, broken pipes climbed the outer walls enclosing the alley, trickling fluid, making the way slick. Mold grew rampant. Rats fed off refuse.

  It was all so distasteful—and yet, so necessary.

  Because of her.

  Because of that damned cop.

  Up ahead, at the bottom of concrete stairs leading farther into the bowels of hell, Oren saw what appeared to be a shrouded head.

  His third, rapid target for the day.

  He always saved the best for last.

  To be safe, Oren slipped on gloves, then withdrew the one remaining hypodermic and prepared it for use.

  The waiting body didn’t move.

  The nearer Oren got, the more details were illuminated. Grizzled graying hair poked out from beneath an old knit hat. Long, knobby fingers, disfigured with arthritis, clutched an all but empty bottle of booze. The reek of unwashed, aging skin and hair emanated from the huddled form.

  Heavy in his pocket, the knife he’d brought along encouraged and titillated him.

  He could barely wait.

  The fouled drugs he’d dropped off at the crack house were amusing, giving the possibility of multiple deaths if a druggie chose to share.

  The pipe bomb left near the playground, waiting for some idiot child to detonate, kept his anticipation sky-high.

  But this, the promise of real bloodshed, pleased him the most.

  Giddy excitement threatened to bubble over, stealing his control. Oren tamped it down. This foul creature wouldn’t offer much of a challenge to his intelligence and cunning, but it’d pose confusion to the bitch and to the cop.

  That counted for a lot.

  Oren was only a few feet away when the bedraggled, decrepit being stirred. He looked up through watery, faded eyes, vague with indulgence and pathos.

  Too stupid to sense his own inescapable death.

  Lunging forward, Oren stabbed the syringe into the man’s chest with brutish delight.

  The victim’s wrinkled mouth opened in terror; a feeble hand batted at the needle.

  But already, the lethal dose of drugs scoured through his bloodstream, rendering him mute, paralyzed.

  Defenseless.

  Unwilling to waste time, Oren retrieved the syringe, broke off the needle against the brick wall, and dropped it back into his pocket.

  The man’s head slumped to the side.

  Such an easy death for him; unfortunately, he wouldn’t feel a thing.

  Oren withdrew the knife. For only a moment, he fingered the hilt, letting his palm become accustomed to the grip, the weight.

  The man twitched, a spontaneous pinching of muscles, and that stimulated Oren, quickened his heartbeat and his glee. Laughing, he stabbed the man in the cheek.

  Blood spurted out against the bricks, bathing the dull rust in glistening crimson.

  Oh God, that felt good.

  He stabbed again, this time sinking half the blade into the man’s shoulder. Then into his chest. His thigh.

  Entranced by his bloody results, at the display of gore and torn muscle, Oren slashed at the deceased man’s nose, leaving cartilage exposed as the only tether keeping it on his face.

  Seeing the nose dangling there, Oren tipped his head. And laughed.

  The idiot drunkard looked so ridiculous.

  But the enjoyment couldn’t last. He didn’t dare vacillate; strike and move. That was the plan. Again and again.

  With one last thrust, Oren buried the knife into the man’s face. It deflected off his cheekbone and slipped alongside his temple, under saggy skin and putrid flesh.

  Macabre.

  Oren loved it.

  Oh how he would enjoy the look on the cop’s face when he found the man. But some pleasures would be denied him. Oren accepted that.

  Stripping off his gloves, he pocketed them, and with a cursory inspection to certify no blood splatters marred his tidy clothes, he went on through the alley and out the other side. Within half an hour, he’d be back at his house, secluded, safe, watching the news for any word of the destruction he’d wrought.

  If it all wasn’t such a bother, he’d be having the time of his life.

  Gaby was closing in on her prey when an onslaught of sensation contracted her muscles and stiffened her bones. No, no!

  Pain of this magnitude either meant she was too late, or there were multiple threats.

  Caught in an illimitable quandary, the pain intensified to egregious proportions. She stumbled, fell against a wall.

  What to do?

  Closing her eyes, she tried to bank the physical misery and clear her mind for instruction. Gasping in deep, fast breaths, she separated the callings, weighed them, and made a choice. For one calling, she was already too late to gain anything. For another, there was still time.

  From what she prevised, only one summons would offer erudition.

  God help her if she chose the wrong one.

  Hating herself, Gaby gave over to the deepest encroachment of consecrated instruction. Driven forward, following a compulsion, she traversed to a dark alley. The pain blistered and popped—then settled into a fizzling ache.

  Too late. She knew it, and still she hastened in, her knife in hand, her senses on alert. She was so immersed in the need to find a live body that she nearly tripped over a dead one.

  She pulled back and focused on the grisly scene.

  Blood drenched a human’s clothes, splattered the surrounding bricks, the hard ground beneath. The body, still in a semi-upright position, was so abused, Gaby couldn’t determine if it was male or female.

  But it was a stranger.

  And this was all for show.

  Careful not to disrupt anything, knowing that somewhere here, a clue waited, she scoured the area and, eventually, descried the needle.

  Bingo. The tie she needed to convince Luther that the attacks were related.

  By the looks of things, the poor drunk hadn’t put up much of a struggle, meaning he’d probably died before the mutilation.

  Tipping her head back to see beyond the old towering buildings, Gaby peered up to the cloudless sky. “Very merciful. Thank you.”

  Urgency pressed in on her, reminding her that this corpse wasn’t the only source of her suffering. Keeping the heterogeneous pains segregated, she decided she had to quickly notify Luther of the incident before following the other dictate.

  Backing out of the alley, she went to the nearest pay phone, dug out Luther’s card and some change, and put in the call.

  Sounding harried and frustrated, he answered on the first ring. “Detective Cross.”

  “It’s me.”

  His tone changed. “Gaby?”

  “Yeah, it’s me.” Ever since she’d stood him up for breakfast a few days ago, and then rescued the woman from the fire, she’d avoided him. She had to avoid him in order to sense these perversions. Around him, her perception was blown to hell. “Surprise, surprise, huh?”

  After a tick of silence, he asked, “Is everything okay?”

  Straight to the chase, huh? Maybe he was still pissed at her. And maybe he’d finally given up on her.

  She wouldn’t blame him either way. “Actually . . . no. I hate to fuck up your day, but—”

  “I’m dealing with three dead addicts. Believe me, my day is already fucked.”

  Three dead addicts? Gaby thought of that needle lying by the dead body in the alley. “What happened?”

  There was a rustle as Luther probably moved away from the crowd. “Someone conveniently lost a stash of what looks like cocaine in a crack house, only it was laced with something deadly. Three women made use of it, and after the first died in convulsions, the third hightailed it to the hospital. She got there in time to shriek out the story, flail in panic, and expire. The docs tell me it was an ugly, painful death. They’re still diagnosing the contaminant used.”

  It struck Gaby that Luther was in a strange sharing mood for a man who was through with a woman. But what the hell? She’d take a
ny edge she could get. “What about the other person? You said there were three, right?”

  “Found her dead at the crack house. Whatever they shot into their veins, it killed them quick and nasty.”

  Damn. Gaby wanted to ponder the connections, but she couldn’t ignore the demand growing to excruciating proportions.

  Hand shaking, she kept the phone to her ear. “I can trump that.” She stared toward the alley, making sure no one entered from the street side. She couldn’t guard both entrances at the same time, though. “Someone played slice and dice on a transient dozing in a drunken stupor in an alley.”

  “And you know this how?”

  She heard the burgeoning anger in Luther’s tone, but there wasn’t time enough, or caring enough, to apologize. “I’m looking at him. Or her. Not sure which it is, the body is so . . . dismantled. Judging by the clothes, though, I’d guess a guy.”

  “Give me an address.”

  Gaby rattled off directions, then said, “I found a needle by the body. I left it there, but I don’t want you to miss it.”

  “No faith in my detective skills, huh?”

  “Don’t go wounded on me. This is too important for ego.”

  “Right.” His tone changed. “Do not go near it again, Gaby, do you understand me? I’m coming right now, so stay on the street and stay out of trouble.”

  “You should hurry, because I can’t stay. I need to . . . do something.” She wasn’t sure what yet, but if she didn’t move soon, the torment would overtake her.

  “Gaby!”

  She hung up on Luther. Bossy jerk. What did he think— that she looked for trouble?

  Hell, it stalked her, often at the most inconvenient times.

  Even as she started on her way, following her instincts, each step quicker than the one before, Gaby began putting the puzzle pieces together.

  Poisoned addicts.

  Mutilated transient.

  Trouble always came in threes, and this was trouble. Now in a full-out run, going on autopilot to expedite matters, Gaby ran several blocks away. Because she was focused inward, she didn’t at first recognize the area where Mort lived, not until she came alongside the playground at the abandoned elementary school across from Mort’s apartments.