“No, Jack. You’re the asshole. Our plan was to get away from the psychos. But you dragged us across the country to hunt two more. Then you play this passive-aggressive bullshit, whining and threatening, and expect me to respect you. I love you, Jack. But you’re not getting my respect when you act this way.”
“McGlade doesn’t have Kevlar in Sam’s size,” Jack said.
“Actually, I have some vests for Harry Jr. They’d fit Sam.”
Thanks, Harry. I owe you one.
“So what’s the play, Jack? Stay here and endanger our family? Or get the hell away from Plastic and Erinyes before one or both come knocking on the door?”
“We can manage without you, Jackie.” McGlade, continuing to be helpful. “I think we can handle these cases without any violence, but there’s always a chance things go bad. Phin’s right to want to leave.”
For half a second, I thought Jack would listen to us.
But I didn’t marry someone who ran away.
I married a fighter.
And the fighter said, “Fine. Sam gets a vest. How do I carry all this stuff, McGlade?”
He pointed to the corner. “Grab one.”
It was a stack of plastic laundry baskets. “Seriously?”
“Can’t see through bags or boxes. Laundry baskets allow me to move a bunch of firearms at once, while immediately being able to see what I’m carrying. Takes away the guesswork.”
Jack carefully placed her haul in the top basket, locked her leg braces, then slowly bent at the waist and lifted it up. Then she switched to spring assist and turned her back on us and left the room.
“Now that that’s settled,” Harry said, “Does Sam want a Kevlar with a pretty princess sticker, or a robot sticker?”
“The robot one.”
“Good. Harry Jr. prefers the pretty princess. You want to help me gather everything?”
I shrugged. “Sure.”
Then I stared back at the exit, unsure if my rocky relationship with my wife had just gotten better, or worse.
ERINYES
The building where Dr. Absalt has his practice is located in a seedy little Beverly Hills strip mall, between a tanning place and a shop that sells organic clothing.
If they do surgery here, this could be perfect.
Cissick parks next to a fat palm tree in a handicapped spot and limps over to the front doors.
Glass. Probably safety glass that will be impossible to break through.
While looking for some sort of burglar alarm system, a tan woman and her two tan children walk past him. All three are gawking.
Go ahead and stare.
This is what a sinner looks like, stripped of sin.
How lucky I am to wear my Penance everywhere I go.
He smiles and waves. The woman quickly turns away. The kids still gape.
I feel really good right now.
He picked up the codeine script earlier, and has already taken a third of the pills.
Like I’m sandwiched between two clouds, being licked all over by angels.
Hopefully I can get more drugs.
Hopefully I can get everything I need.
He fantasizes about Tom.
His new son.
His new pet.
Chained up, trembling and bleeding, covered in fresh welts.
A belt. I need to get a nice, heavy, leather belt.
Leather hurts the most.
He giggles.
There’s a sound, and Cissick realizes his cell phone is buzzing. He fishes it out of his robe.
A text.
—ANY UPDATES?
Cissick turns the phone sideways so the onscreen keyboard is larger. He’s missing a few fingertips, and touchscreens are his nemesis.
—NOT YET. BUT CLOSE.
He has to backtrack and retype CLOSE several times because he keeps pressing W-E instead of S-E.
Technology is so wondrous and so annoying at the same time.
—HOW SOON?
So nice to be wanted.
—SOON.
If everything works as planned.
Years ago, finding sinners required no more planning than driving around and picking up a whore. Even the last one, the recent one, had been simple enough. Called an escort service with a TracFone and a prepaid store-bought credit card, met her at a vacant house, the rich snowbird owners leaving it empty during the hot summer months. Cissick had taken his time with her, then mummified her corpse in plastic and left it in the living room as a welcome home present.
When the authorities found the body—not even cling wrap can fully contain that lovely putrefaction smell—another dead whore in L.A. didn’t even warrant more than a single night of local news coverage.
Cruel world. Something I know well.
But every one of Cissick’s victim’s had come to him, all but one when Cissick still had youth and strength and health.
Cissick has given Tom reasons to be justifiably paranoid, so he will suspect any trap to lure him somewhere. Overpowering him would be impossible. And even if Cissick manages to subdue Tom, how does he bring him back to his new doghouse?
It’s a challenge.
But I’m up for that challenge.
I’ll take it one step at a time.
I’ll overcome all obstacles.
I am a force of nature.
I am Erinyes, the bringer of vengeance, the redeemer of sinners, the bestower of Penance.
I will bring Tom into my home as my new son/new pet.
And I will cleanse him with pain.
Cissick enters the office and faces a large, ornate A & S logo hanging on the wall.
Dr. Absalt & Dr. Schlimm.
Hopefully there will be a waiting room full of people to repulse.
Cissick learned fast that the more patients he scared, the bigger the painkiller prescription he’d receive.
He hobbles into the lobby, pleased to see seven vanity-obsessed Californians waiting for their turn at beautification.
None of them glance up from their smart phones as Cissick makes his entrance, so he loudly clears his throat, then makes a moist coughing/hacking sound that he’s practiced to be as disgusting as possible.
Several people look up, annoyed—
—then look away, mortified.
Beautiful.
Even better, there is a sign on the wall, pointing to an operating room.
If I play this right, it could solve all of my problems.
He walks slowly to the check-in desk, wallowing in the surreptitious glances, and smiles toothlessly at the nurse. She gapes at him, and doesn’t even have the professionalism to pretend he’s just like anyone else.
Tough to find good help these days.
After a few seconds of gawking silence, he announces himself. “I’m Brad Dunwich.”
“Do you… uh… have an appointment, Mr. Dunwich?”
“I’m a referral. I was referred to Dr. Absalt by Dr. Kline.”
“Dr. Absalt is… um… very booked up.”
“That’s not a problem.” Cissick shows his gums. “I can wait.”
The pretty nurse doesn’t seem to like that idea. Her eyes get big and she stands up. “I’ll see if he can squeeze you in.”
Cissick nods a thank you as she wiggles away. In the meantime, he looks around for a security system.
Nothing in the usual spots.
It takes less than a minute for a man in a lab coat to come over. But rather than revulsion, this man’s face appears fascinated. He’s in his thirties, strong chin with a dimple in it, piercing blue eyes, perfectly styled hair.
“Mr. Dunwich? I’m Dr. Absalt. Come into my consulting room and we can talk.”
Unexpected. Cissick doesn’t appreciate the unexpected. Having experienced both the giving end and the receiving end of surprises, he knew they are usually followed by extreme pain.
But he’s come this far, so he reluctantly follows Dr. Absalt through the tiled hallway, brightening when he sees the door with the y
ellow triangle warning sign, then frowning when he sees it has a heavy duty deadbolt.
Disappointed, he tags behind the doctor and enters a plush office. Cissick is offered a leather chair facing Absalt’s expansive desk. He sits, eyes wandering to the framed medical degrees and awards lining the walls.
Absalt stands in front of him, arms crossed over his chest. “Someone did this to you.”
Cissick nods. “The pain never stops. You can see my face. My body is worse.”
“Can you remove your robe?”
Cissick adjusts himself in his seat and lifts the robe up to his chin, exposing his chest.
“Do these scars cover your entire body?”
“Even the bottoms of my feet. He liked to whip my feet.”
“Do you mind if I invite my partner in here to consult? He’s really the expert at this kind of thing.”
Cissick shrugs.
I’d pose naked on a parade float if it got me a script.
Absalt uses the intercom on his desk to call Dr. Schlimm. While they wait, Absalt continues to peer at Cissick like he’s a zoo animal.
Cissick wonders if he’s banging that hot nurse, and immediately dismisses the stupid thought.
Of course he’s banging her. He’s probably banging most of his patients, too.
Handsome plus rich. He should run for Governor.
Dr. Schlimm is stocky, and obviously works out. Not as handsome as Dr. Absalt, and his face seems somehow off.
Too many plastic surgeries. Skin too tight, chin too broad, cheeks too high, nose too straight; all the work he’s had done has given him almost a Mr. Potatohead look.
Yep. He looks almost plastic.
“Do you remember the last cases we saw like this, Doctor?” Schlimm asks Absalt. Schlimm’s voice is cracking.
Stress?
Or excitement?
“Yes. The older man and the girl. Both horribly tortured.”
“The girl privately told me they’d done much of it to each other. Something to do with hitchhiking.”
“As I recall, they didn’t want our help. They came looking for painkillers. A shame. I think we could have done them a world of good.”
Cissick shudders. “You do the surgery here?”
Absalt nods. “Yes. We have an OR onsite.”
Schlimm leans in closer. “How much of your body is scarred, Mr. Dunwich?”
“All of it. Every inch.”
I deserved it.
I was bad. I needed Penance.
But I ache so much.
I need pills.
More pills. Pills to kills my ills.
“What did you look like prior to this?” Dr. Schlimm asks.
“Average. Maybe less than average. I was never a lady killer, you know what I mean?”
At least, not figuratively.
Literally, that’s exactly what I am.
“Do you have pictures of yourself? From before?”
Were these guys actually crusaders? Like those Doctors Without Borders do-gooder assholes who volunteer in third world countries?
Cissick decides to answer honestly. “I’ve come to accept my appearance. I’d just like the pain to stop.”
Dr. Schlimm doesn’t seem satisfied with the answer. “We could give you a nose. Ears. Teeth. Smooth out the scarring.”
“I don’t have health insurance.”
“We could do it at a drastic discount. Get you closer to AA.”
Cissick is confused. “Alcoholics Anonymous?”
“Aesthetically Average,” Schlimm replies. “We’re not like many other Hollywood plastic surgeons. We’re not giving bigger breasts to porn stars, or lip injections to boy toys who want to look like K-pop singers. We don’t normally cater to APs; the Aesthetically Privileged. Our aim is to help the AUs.”
What’s up with this guy and the acronyms?
Cissick takes a shot. “Aesthetically Unfortunate?”
Schlimm makes a face that makes him appear unhinged. “I prefer the term Aesthetically Unlucky. People with good genes get the best jobs, best partners, best opportunities. It’s fundamentally unfair. Someone doing this to you… it’s more than criminal. It’s perverse.”
Cissick stares hard at Schlimm. There’s something deeper than his plastic surgery looks.
Deep-rooted pain?
Zealotry?
“My major problem is the pain. I don’t want any more pain. I’m always in pain.”
“Surgery could alleviate some of the pain,” Schlimm says. “And I’m like Michelangelo with a scalpel.”
There’s a familiar gleam in Schlimm’s eyes.
I know it because I see it in my own eyes.
That’s crazy in there.
Takes one to know one.
Cissick shivers and reaches for his wizard robe, putting it back down. “I’m not a fan of sharp things, Dr. Schlimm.”
Unless I’m the one wielding them.
“When I was a child, I had crooked teeth, a big nose, ears that stuck out, and cystic acne.” Dr. Schlimm turns side to side, giving Cissick a view of both profiles. “I can’t promise these results. But I’m sure I can improve your quality of life.”
Cissick checks on Dr. Absalt, who seems bored.
Dr. Schlimm seems aroused.
“Let me think about it,” Cissick says. “Thank you both for your time.”
They each shake his hand, Schlimm holding on longer than comfortable.
“I want to help you, Mr. Dunwich.”
“Thanks. I’ll be seeing you, Dr. Schlimm.”
Sooner than you think.
Cissick picks up his canes and makes his spider-walk escape, leaving the office, getting back to his scooter, starting it up and driving around to the back of the strip mall, where all the stores have their Dumpsters.
The back door of the clinic is heavy, with sturdy locks.
No way in after hours.
But maybe there is another way.
He goes back to the front parking lot and studies the cars, spotting the most expensive models.
Then, like a spider, he waits.
TOM
Roy nudged him. “We goin’ or what? Lots of shit to do.”
“I need to talk to Loot about something.”
“This some private thing?”
“Sort of.”
“Cool.” Roy clapped Tom on the shoulder. “I’m gonna take some Big Dick pics to show Trish.”
“I’m sure she’s never seen something that big.”
“She sees that every night. But this Big Dick has more hair. Catch me in the pool.”
Roy glided away, and Tom waited for Jack to come out of the armory. He caught up to her in the hallway, as she cradled a laundry hamper full of firearms.
“Might want to wash those on delicate,” Tom suggested.
Jack didn’t smile. She looked stern. Even sterner than usual.
“I’m going to the gun range.”
“Need help carrying all that?”
“No.”
“Can I tag along? Got something to ask you.”
Jack nodded and walked ahead of him, her gait stilted and somewhat mechanical.
Tom considered their unquantifiable relationship. Years ago, she was his Lieutenant in Homicide division, and they maintained a superior/subordinate position. After she left the force, they stayed in touch as former co-workers, helping each other occasionally on a semi-professional basis, but never crossing over into full-blown friendship. Jack was older. Jack had been through more. In some weird way, Tom felt she was still his boss.
But he had no problems going to his boss for advice.
Harry’s gun range was underground; the first basement in California Tom had ever seen. He carried the basket of guns while Jack steadily navigated the stairs, both hands on the railing.
“Sorry I’m so slow.”
“Take your time. I’ve got metal in both my knees, and stairs suck.”
“This may take a while.” Jack grunted, descending another ste
p. “What did you want to ask?”
What do I want to ask?
Or more to the point, how do I want to ask it?
Tom formulated the question in his head, decided it was too on-the-nose, and softened it up.
“I’ve been hurt more than a few times. By bad people. I’m still recovering from the last time. I quit the force so it would stop.”
“But it hasn’t stopped. Someone from your past is after you.”
“Yeah.”
“And since I’ve been in that same spot, you’re wondering how I handle it.”
“Right.”
Jack stopped on the stairs and turned to look at him. “I handle it badly. That’s how I handle it. I can’t sleep without meds. I’m depressed. I anger easily and take it out on the people I love, and then hate myself because those people that I love—the people who are most important to me—are also at risk because of the decisions I’ve made in my life. Because I decided to try to chase bad guys without ever thinking that someday those bad guys might chase me.”
This isn’t what I wanted to hear.
“There’s no way to handle it, Tom. Just take every conflict as it comes, do your best, be aware of your surroundings and your family and friends and everything you say and everything you do, because someone bad might be watching. I feel like I’m living on the edge of a volcano crater, and one wrong move I’ll fall in. And if I’m careful and don’t fall in, there’s still nothing I can do if that volcano decides to erupt.”
Well, shit.
“I was hoping you’d just tell me to do yoga or take Zoloft or something.”
Jack grinned. “Tried both. The best way to cope is by living well, trying to have fun, and being prepared for worst-case scenarios.”
“Does that help?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t been able to really succeed at any of that lately. The little bit of gas I still have in the tank I save for Samantha, to make sure she’s happy and safe and growing up as normal as possible, in a two-parent household.”
That’s my biggest fear.
That’s why I don’t want to have kids, even though Joan does.
They eventually made it down all fourteen steps and through a steel door. Tom’s knees felt like someone had rubbed sandpaper between his joints, and he eagerly set the heavy basket on a nearby table. Then he checked out the set-up.
The shooting range had two lanes, each a meter wide and twenty meters long. Overhead, metal wires that delivered and retrieved paper targets. In the distance, a bullet trap made of rubber and sand, angled to capture the projectiles.
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