Sword of the Butterfly

by Scott Carruba

  “Yes?”

  “Does it have four wheel drive?”

  “No, it does not.”

  “Well, we’ll make do.”

  “Why do you ask?” Duilio finally pitches.

  “Well… our quarry isn’t driving, and I don’t expect it to stick to roads. We could easily end up in some rough terrain before this is all over.”

  “Ahhh,” Duilio muses, nodding.

  “It’s going to be tough,” David carries on, gaining Duilio’s full attention, “This thing may look human, but it’s not, you understand that? It could use that to get you to underestimate it, like those cops back at the station. Doesn’t matter how big or mean some guy may look, if you have a loaded shotgun leveled at him, you might feel safer, stronger, but don’t make that mistake here, Gaspare.”

  “I … don’t have a loaded shotgun, but I understand you.”

  David nods, slowly, a curl touching his lips.

  “Like I said, we’ll make do.”

  *****

  He sits in his private dormitory room, accompanied only by the flickering flame of the single candle, a scribbling noise coming from the pen as it scratches over the blank paper. He is bent to the task, his large form awkward in the too-small chair, his proximity to the parchment implying he may have some difficulty in seeing.

  Some students have private rooms such as this, though they do not come cheap. Others prefer to have a roommate, but he eschews such interaction and companionship. Classes have just begun, but he is not here to make friends. He is here to acquire knowledge.

  He pauses, sitting up, though still with somewhat hunched shoulders. His accelerated growth and unusual height has left him with poor posture. His brain, though, is abuzz, and he ponders. An observer might think him merely sitting, as though in some meditative pose, for he does not show any movement of his ecru-hued eyes nor any furrowing of his rather prominent brow. He comes to something, though, as he bends back to his task, using his free hand to tuck a thick, stray lock of his oily, dark hair behind a large ear before resuming his writing.

  The scrawl fills the pages of the journal. He has kept many of these in his time, feeling somewhat compelled to spill the contents of his mind. It is not necessarily a labor of love so much as a necessity of survival. He has not been raised in a manner normal, and he has become his own companion, given quasi-independence by this birth upon paper.

  The one class in which he held such hope has proven, indeed, to be the jewel. It is one meant to be a broad, basic study of Mythology, Folklore, and Literature. Such a collection of topics might appear very ambitious for one semester, but the Professor, Ernest Edwards, is up to the task. The senior instructor managed to offend a few students the first day by making a very controversial remark, saying this serves as a gauge of how the content might progress, and if any found such too unsavory, then they ought to drop the course.

  He had experienced a stab of thrill when he heard the words, but he outwardly showed no such thing, save craning his head up to better see from his place in the back row. Though he has very little experience interacting with people, he knows enough to sit behind everyone.

  Once it proved no one was leaving, or at least that no one had the guts to get up and walk out right then, the Professor had gone down the short list of attendance. It calmed the suddenly turbulent waters, as he made little remarks to each student, displaying some of the obviously vast knowledge of his in how he might pluck a random fact or piece of information from here or there based on their surname.

  At first the odd student had followed it with some degree of curiosity, interested to see the interplay as well as the display of knowledge and how each morsel somehow fit, but then it dawned on him that soon his own name would be called.

  “Wilbraham?” came the inevitable summons, the professor moving his head around as though in search of whom this may be, though nearly all of the small body of the class had by now been announced.

  “Here, sir,” he finally spoke, his voice an odd mixture of deep, gruff, but with a scratch of break, as though of pubescence or merely suffering from some chronic allergy.

  The teacher leaned forward on the meager bookstand at the front of the class, staring unabashedly at the odd looking lad.

  “That is a good, old name from England,” Professor Edwards remarked with utmost sincerity, then consulting his list, looking back up, “Pothos? That’s your first name?”

  Pothos nodded, slowly, almost laboriously.

  “Your parents must also be students of mythology to give you a great name like that,” the instructor carried on, letting his dark, bushy eyebrows rise as though throwing a question mark onto the supposition.

  Pothos has said nothing, and the professor had plunged forward, completing attendance, then letting them all know that their grade for the session would consist of two papers and only two papers. They would determine the topic one-on-one, but it had to, of course, be something related to the coursework. He assured them he would be very liberal in this assessment. The first paper would be turned in by mid-term, the second by the time of finals.

  Pothos paused in his recollection, his large, left hand still set on the page, writing again halted, and a shadow seemed to touch his thin lips. One might find it difficult to discern if this was merely the play of candlelight or if he had been set on actually affecting a grin.

  *****

  “They were all shot in the back of the head,” intones the voice, clinical but not without some vestigial touch of repressed emotion, “Marks on the body indicate they had been restrained and gagged prior to death. Much of the rest of the condition … of the bodies is due to the manner of disposal.”

  They had been shortly found in a garbage dump, all four of them, very little effort having been made to hide them or obscure efforts at their identification. As it is, records are being scoured, avenues explored, to determine the names of the dead children. Then families will be notified.

  Quain stands here with his new partner, Maria Kahler, a rather no-nonsense woman of Germanic lineage, her hair a dark blond, cropped rather short, giving it a lighter appearance against her pale flesh. She listens intently to the other generally no-nonsense woman here, Medical Examiner and Coroner Harriet McNeese, the somewhat overweight lady covered in her usual white coat, a pale yellow dress glimpsed beneath it.

  “Their ages range from ten to fifteen, as best I can tell,” McNeese continues, “They’ve been cleaned up.” She raises her head, not looking at the shrouded figures out of an act of sheer will, even as her words and the general attitude of all here suggest an air of reverence. “Digital photographs are in the file to be used to also aid in identification.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Kahler says, “I can’t imagine this has been a pleasant task.”

  “No,” McNeese replies, staring at the other woman, evincing no manner of sensitivity.

  She had been rocked last year by the disappearance of Detective Pasztor, a man with whom she had been formerly involved. Their relationship had not lasted, and they generally treated one another with a sort of simmering conflict, but it did not take a psychologist to tell that was because they still harbored feelings for one another. To this day, no other information has been found regarding the sudden absence of the man and his partner, both assumed, but not officially designated, as victims of the serial killer of the time period, who also just up and suddenly disappeared shortly thereafter. Popular opinion is that the two cops found him, were killed, and possibly gave the killer a reason to leave. Interpol is helping, of course, to keep an eye out for similar murders, but nothing ever came up to think the murderer had fled and was operating elsewhere.

  All of that had been on the heels of a rash of deaths of young women, some minors. It had been the sort of thing to make her rethink her choice of career. The ensuing time had generally been normal, at least in regards to how she might gauge such a thing, but then the arrival of these executed children had tested her. She wonders if another rash of
horrible killings is upon them. She wonders how much more of this she can take.

  Kahler doesn’t like it any more than the coroner does, but what also deeply concerns her is her new partner. They leave the office with their information, heading to the car.

  “Child prostitutes.”

  “What?” she asks, looking over at him.

  “That’s what I think this is,” Quain explains, “I think these kids were held against their will, prostituted out, and then killed, for whatever reason. Maybe they were thought of as baggage, meat past expiration.”

  “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

  “I know.” He nods, his words laced with sympathy below the force of hard pragmatism.

  “So, you think they were sex slaves?”

  “This city has had them before.”

  “Yes, it has,” she says, steeling a scowling look on him. “You know that. You’ve seen it. How do you know that is what is going on here?”

  He does not step back under her gaze, one which nearly meets him at eye level, such is her height and the few inches added by her shoes, but he knows the point she is making.

  “I don’t,” he acquiesces, “I have a hunch. We use information networks. You know that. We use criminal informants. That’s just the way it is-.”

  “Yes, I know this ,” she cuts him off, the expression on her face tightening. “We sometimes use criminals for information. Of course, we do, but we are not the criminals. I don’t know why you put in for your transfer, but I will tell you why I am in this department – for that.” She points back in the direction of the morgue. “I hate seeing that. I hate the horrible things that people do to children.”

  She pauses a moment, drilling her light colored eyes into him. He just waits, taking it, knowing he deserves it.

  “You are here for your reasons. Fine. But I will tell you something, Detective Contee, if I feel you are at all doing anything that may threaten the children, I will take you down with whatever force is at my disposal. Do you understand me?”

  “I do.” He nods slowly, as though placating a mad gunman.

  “Good.” She turns, heels reporting on the concrete as they reach their car, she going for the driver’s side. “I am the lead here,” she continues once they are in, “You follow my instruction. Help me, help the children, and everything will be fine.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says with utmost sincerity.

  He very much desires to positively assist and contribute. He knows he has to prove himself. He also feels confident that these recent victims are from the child prostitution ring. It shocks him to know what has happened, and he feels the need for friendly courtesy between himself and Alec can go right out the window if it has come to this sort of horrible crime now in the city.

  Alec had recently quit the department, which, in retrospect, should not have been a surprise to him. Alec had told him that the new crime boss was forcing a choice. It upsets him that his former partner seems to now be content to so thoroughly ensconce himself in that life, but then he decides he is a hypocrite to judge so. He had lied to himself for too long that being a corrupt cop was better than being an overt member of organized crime. What’s the difference, he had concluded. Being a corrupt insider who is supposed to uphold the law and protect the citizens, well, that may make him even worse.

  He sits quietly as they drive. They have work to do, and yes, he will bow to the lead of his new and more senior partner, but he has other avenues he’ll be exploring on his own.

  *****

  The intensity of her focus might give an observer to think she is paying close attention to the instructor, as well she should. Certainly, it is possible to be too narrow in such, which may cause one to miss things, but her aspect does indicate an unerring study. She watches, listens, goes through the motions, sweat and exhaustion building in her body. She even executes a few of the moves so well as to gain a quick tap from her partner and a notice and nod, even a few words of positive assessment from the teacher.

  It all seems to be as one might intend and expect from such a self-defense class. To put an even finer point on it, what one might desire.

  Yet in her mind, her thoughts are on other things.

  She watches as Lilja carries through the class in her usual manner, displaying her obvious skill with a casual efficiency. Therese knows the woman is good, has been doing this for years. She knows that the petite redhead is capable of so much more than the mere running of a self-defense class. There is a strength in her, a great potential, and Therese looks upon her now with a seething disappointment, a simmering, even, of disgust.

  She watches, closely, her thoughts often going to ‘why?’, and she does not even realize what this means of her. She does the exercises with hardly any mind to them, a sign of her own increasing ability. She carries an aspect of determination. She has been thinking of this a lot recently, and the more she watches as Lilja displays her skill, the more is Therese driven further. The time for watching is over.

  “Can I talk to you?”

  Lilja looks up from nearly being done with putting away the training items to see Therese standing there. The young woman is highlighted with a gleam of perspiration, hands on her waist. Lilja stops what she is doing, rising to fully face her student, suppressing any rising sense of alarm.

  “How may I help you, Therese?”

  “I know about the murdered children,” the hacker flatly states.

  Nothing changes in Lilja’s outward demeanor, but she feels a sudden shocking stab of anxiety.

  “What murdered children?”

  “The ones that were found recently by the police,” Therese replies, her eyes narrowing, “Come on, Lilja, you don’t have to play that with me.”

  “Play what?” comes the reply, and the redhead stands there, very calm.

  Therese just looks at her, then releases a pent-up breath, noisily exhaling through her nostrils.

  “Those kids were part of the child prostitution ring, and they were slaughtered, just … killed … in cold blood. They were children,” Therese continues, her emotion bubbling forth.

  Lilja maintains her even appearance, though her blue eyes appear to be shrouded in darkness.

  “That’s horrible,” Therese adds, losing her limited patience with Lilja’s continued silence.

  “It is.”

  “You knew about it,” Therese says, throwing out the words like an accusation, accenting them with a fling of her left hand. “I know you knew about it. You had to. So-.” She steels her eyes on her instructor, her head shaking from side to side, yet barely moving. “So, why didn’t you stop it? Why didn’t you save those kids?”

  Lilja exerts a great effort to limit her reaction. This is thin ice, very thin. She almost feels as though she stands there, at the center of the frozen water, bored into by the silent reproach of the eyes of the dead children, the tears and blood-stained gazes of all the victims she could have saved.

  “What?” she finally speaks, though it sounds a touch more desperate than defensive, “How was I supposed to save them?”

  “I don’t know! You’re the one with all the … abilities.”

  “I’m just one person, Therese,” Lilja flatly responds, “I’m not ‘super woman’. I can’t save everyone.”

  “You could have saved them, though,” the student retorts, though now she sounds more saddened than angry, almost as though defeated by disappointment. She has somewhat turned away, hunching slightly, and she turns her eyes back to the teacher.

  Lilja just stands there, seeming as cold as the very ice upon which she treads. It pains her to see that look on the other woman. It pains her to think of those dead children. It pains her to think of all the terrible things that wait out there, large and small, and how could she ever hope to stave that roiling, destructive wave? But she says nothing, displays none of her inner turmoil.

  “You saved me ,” Therese finally breaks the brewing silence, her voice sounding small, strained. “Twice,” then
she swallows, blinking, straightening her spine, turning to fully face the other , “Why didn’t you save them?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lilja forces, “or exactly what you are trying to say. What happened to those children is horrible, and I wish I had saved them ...” Her voice trails off, and though she feels a tremble, like a deep rumbling that may remind one of small fractures, she maintains her appearance.

  The emotions warring on Therese are difficult to bear. Lilja sees anger there, sadness, frustration, disappointment, but she cannot give in.

  “What’s the point of all this, then, huh?”

  “I’m trying to make you all stronger,” Lilja replies, “so you can help yourselves. I can’t be everywhere all the time.”

  “Self-reliance.” Therese nods, shakily, inhaling sharply, tension showing in her jawline and throat. “Inner strength. Right.”

  Lilja just observes.

  “What’s all of this going to do for me if I am bound and gagged and shot in the back of the head?” Therese throws out, then she turns and leaves, grabbing her bag, not bothering to head to the showers, just exiting the building.

  Lilja stands there for a while, unmoving, just holding place. Her eyes stare off toward the door through which her student has passed. She then shows motion of an increased respiration, taking in a deep, lengthy breath, chest rising with it, then she tenses, turning, crying out and unleashing a powerful strike to the nearby punching bag. This is followed by another, another, and another, all punctuated with loud cries. She does not stop until her knuckles are bloody and the gleam of suppressed tears shines from her eyes.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The dark liquid in the bone white demitasse cup is so inky that it looks like a black mirror. It sits on the small, similarly colored saucer, a nearby modest dish with sugar cubes and tiny tongs remains untouched. The hand that finally reaches forth to delicately take the narrow handle of the mug shows some tattoos, the fingernails short, well-manicured. The man wears a pressed, off white shirt, tailored black suit, his hair slicked back. He sips somewhat noisily of the espresso, enjoying the dark, bitter drink.