Just thought I'd do some 'traditional' blogging for a change, seeing as I've dominated this space with excerpts of my own glorious work. Too bad sacrasm translates to these things so poorly, otherwise I might not have to point it out and, thus, rob it of it's sting.
Anyhoo, I wanted to give a big shout-out to the International Festival Of Authors, or IFOA, held here in Toronto from October 21-31, which makes it almost over for another year, (it's 30th for those of you counting). Aside from various workshops, award ceremonies, and photo-ops, there are readings held every night from four noted authors and/or poets, followed by a book signing. It's a great way to celebrate the fine art of writing and power of the written word and all that fun stuff, plus it can be a good, relatively inexpensive, to say nothing of alternative, night out.
Last night I went down to Harborfront, where the events are held to check out a reading and it was pretty cool. Hosted by author, Ian Rankin, (who is reading tonight, incidentally), it featured four Scottish authors, namely, Denise Mina, promoting her book, "The Dead Hour"; William Deverell, reading from his new book, "Snow Job", (hell of a title); poet, Dani Couture, reading from her latest compilation, "Good Meat", (interesting title); and my personal fave, crime writer extraordinaire, Michael Connelly, reading bits from his latest Harry Bosch caper, "Nine Dragons."
All of them were quite good and seemed eager to be there, although I can't imagine those sorts of readings are entirely unnerving. Still, I suppose if you've done a whole bunch it's all fairly routine, maybe even fun. I wouldn't mind being on that stage myself someday, providing I have something worthy to share. Suffice it to say, a good time was had by all. The line up for signing was atrociously long so I actually went down to the pier and wrote a little for my upcoming masterpiece, (where's that sarcasm button again?), "Impetus," Book Two of the still-pending saga, The Mantra. Book One, "Minutemark" will probably end up here at some point.
All for now. Check out the festival if you can, while you can. If not, there's always next year.
D.A.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
An Axis Oblique - Chapter Two
Okay, without further adieu, here's chapter two...
–– Two ––
Cynthia was all out of Bisquick.
She tore that whole kitchen apart before accepting it, but standing there, defeated inside the buzzing McAllister’s refrigerator, the hard truth loomed plain as day. Strike one. Perhaps she could have attempted something more elaborate, like eggs benedict, or those stroodle-pastries pushed way back in the freezer, but her heart had been set on them finding their breakfast prepared, a-la Mary Poppins, as they fumbled downstairs on robust little legs. So she settled for two overflowing bowls of ‘Choco-Nutems’ instead.
It was seven forty-three on Friday morning and she expected them down any minute. First would be Nicholas, the rambunctious elder at ten, followed closely by Patrick, younger brother, who would be seven come September. Ever since she began this pathetic little job looking after the two McAllister boys every other afternoon, she couldn’t help but ignore her redundancy. She was not, as a general rule, particularly fond of children; perhaps the result of being the eldest of three herself––and surrogate mother, as her own mother never grew tired of drilling in.
She was twenty-six now, and until accepting Henry’s somewhat out of the blue offer almost three months ago to the day, had never felt less like a responsible adult in her life. Four years after flunking out of journalism at NYU, she found herself on her own for the first time; her mother, the doormat, Rebecca Caldwell and step-father Gary proclaiming hands washed. Whatever remained of their token mother-daughter relationship dissolved slowly thereafter. But the real erosion started some years before, the day they lost the one true peace-keeper between them; her father, the only man she completely trusted.
When she met Henry McAllister, he seemed just like all the rest; though her jaw hurt like Hell. It was on an emergency trip to the orthodontist’s; the closest she could find in the yellow pages that day.
_____
“So how exactly did this happen, Miss…?”
“Rogers.” A fake name. She had no reason to lie but the word somehow slipped out. “I ah…tripped on the vacuum chord. Fell head first into the bedroom door.”
“Uh huh. I don’t recall seeing you around here. Are you new in town?”
“Sort of. I go to school up here. Journalism.”
“Is that right?” he said, reaching for something cold and pointy. “You know, I’ve got a niece who went to Columbia for journalism; works as a fact researcher for the New York Times.” Yes sir, Henry had an anecdote for every occasion. “And, open…”
_____
Right from the moment she sat in his chair, he saw through her façade.
_____
“Here’s an idea. How bout you come work for me?” The impromptu proposal came somewhere between the needle and that mirror do-hickey.
At first, she couldn’t tell whether he was serious or just teasing...what with the surgical mask. “You mean here?”
“Well, no, not––I meant at my home…” She kept her open mouth shut. “Seriously, my wife and I both work and our nanny just quit, which is a burden, yes, but the boys never really took to her anyway.” The man sounded dead serious. “I could start you off this afternoon, if you want; meet them as soon as they get home from school. You did say you were looking for something flexible, right?”
“Well…”
“Sorry,” he rapidly retracted, (the instrument and the suggestion). “Tell you what, why don’t you think it over…get back to me by say, the end of the week, sound good?”
_____
The next day she said yes.
What better place, she considered, to fall off the face of the earth.
Her first week of gameful employment, she mistook his good nature for something more––and one night in his driveway, tested the waters…
_____
“Believe me, honey, I couldn’t be more flattered…” he’d said, taking her hand in his firm, manly grip. “I just so happen to love my wife…” She couldn’t imagine why. The woman brought out the warmth in a block of ice. “Plus you’re probably much too good for me…” That got her to smile. She didn’t have the best luck with men. Not since a malignant tumor took away her hero––and Henry gave hope to the rest.
_____
It was ‘Dr. McAllister’ on most formal occasions, around his wife especially. Cynthia had come to suspect resentment on her behalf, and perhaps even a little jealousy, (which she sort of enjoyed). She knew the emotion well, after all. It’s what got her that chipped crown in the first place.
“I thought you said pancakes.” A tiny voice spoke.
Cynthia turned to the disappointed face of young Nicky McAllister.
“Good morning,” she said, cheerful. “We were. Guess your mom forgot to pick up more pancake mix. Maybe tomorrow, okay?” He continued to look on with disenchantment, as though he could tell it was just something to say.
“You’re not going to be here tomorrow. You think I don’t know that?”
“Listen,” she leveled. “I can’t make pancakes without the pancake mix, Nicky. I promise, we’ll do it the very next time I get the chance, okay? Can you forgive me?”
“Yeah, sure, whatever…” he grumbled, slinking in behind his bowl of unwanted cereal. She noticed he was getting very snippy lately and hoped it wasn’t due to her influence. Sarcasm got her into more than enough trouble already. “So where’s your brother? Doesn’t he usually come down with you?”
“Don’t think he’s feeling too well.” He shrugged. “You might wanna go check on him,” crunching down a spoonful of pure concentrated sugar. Strike two.
Halfway up the stairs, she considered he could well be lying. She wouldn’t put it past him. With Nick, it was never so easy to tell.
Standing before Patrick’s closed door, she pushed it, and her anxiety aside.
The boy rested undisturbed beneath the blanket. “Patrick…? Patrick, honey. It’s me, Cynthia...” Nothing. She quietly approached. “Your brother says you’re not feeling well...” The boy’s eyes crept open, as though drained of their strength. “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong, sweetie?” she began, stroking his sweaty forehead. A quiet cough escaped before he managed to mouth the words,
“my tummy hurts…”
“Oh. Well, I’m sure we can fix that. Why don’t you try sitting up, okay?” She lifted the heavy covers off his forty-eight pound frame and noted the gaping stains in his bedsheets and pj’s. It wasn’t until she reached down and touched his soaking wet t-shirt that she realized it was sweat.
“Mommy...”
“No sweetie, it’s me, Cynthia. Do you want a glass of water?”
“I want…Mommy…” He strained not to cry. She was worried.
“Do you feel like you want to throw up?”
“No...”
“How bout we go into the bathroom just in case?” she said, and carried him.
In the bathroom, she sat him down gently on the toilet seat and began searching. “I’m cold...” he whimpered. At last she came across a box with a doting mom sticking a thermometer into the mouth of a healthy-looking little girl, and ripped it open.
“I know you are, honey. I’m just gonna check your temperature, then we’ll get you another blanket, okay?”
“Okay…” The little guy was remarkably agreeable; (a stark contrast to his brother). Sliding the thermometer gently under his tongue, she retreated back into the hallway to find him a clean blanket.
He did not move an inch till she returned, and then, only to look vaguely up at her. He looked so pale; the heavy thermometer pulling his lower lip down past his chin. Wrapping the blanket around his shoulders, she removed it from his mouth. One hundred fourteen. Not good. The phone rang, startling her into nearly dropping it altogether. Please be Henry, she thought, as it stopped in mid-ring––
Nick must have got it.
“You know what I think I’m going to do for you today, Patrick? I’m gonna make you a big cup of my world famous hot chocolate…” Her voice rose an octave and she realized she was channeling her mother. Strike three.
“kay…” he barely replied. It seemed like the last thing he wanted.
“Cynthia!” Nick shouted. “Phone!” Henry, she hoped, looking back to Patrick.
“I’ll be right back.” The boy remained silent, only shivering. The sight made her question the decision to leave him, but she thought she saw a cordless phone in the master bedroom.
“Cynthia!” Nick again, having the nerve to sound impatient.
“I’m coming!” she belted, reaching the McAllister bedroom and switching on the black cordless phone on the nightstand.
“Hello...”
“What took you so long?” Immediately she recognized the cold condition of––
“Mrs. McAllister. Good morning. I was, um…” Cynthia swallowed, bracing. “…just checking on Patrick, who’s apparently…a bit…under the weather…”
“What? What’s wrong?” she erupted, losing her mind. “Oh I can’t believe he would just…so typical... Where’s Henry?”
“Mrs. McAllister, calm down, please, everything’s fine. Hen––Mr. McAllister––Doctor––had to see an early patient. He said he’d be back by around noon…”
“Early patient…” she scoffed… “What’s his temperature?”
Cynthia braced again. “About…one fourteen...”
“Oh my poor baby…” A short pause–– “Alright, listen carefully; I assume you’ve been instructed to take the boys to school, correct?”
“Um, yes but––”
“Good. You’re to drop off Nick, as planned, but I want you to take Patrick to The Community Medical Centre…it’s a corner building at Rodan and Drury, you can’t miss it. With me so far…?”
“Yes, but––”
“I’ll call ahead so they don’t blow a gasket when he doesn’t show up for roll call and meet you in the waiting room at quarter to nine, okay?” This time it was Cynthia’s turn to pause, not much caring for her tone…and to make sure she was finished…
“Cynthia, are you there?”
“And what about…Mr. McAllister…? Would you like me to, um, try to––”
“No, dear, don’t bother. Just make sure Nick has his homework finished before he tries to weasel out of it later. And keep Patrick as comfortable as possible. Aspirin’s alright but nothing stronger, do you hear me…?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” She was holding her tongue.
“Tell him Mommy will see him very soon.” She hung up without even goodbye.
Cynthia hung up very soon after.
There was a name for people like Mary-Ann McAllister. In fact, there were several. Standing up off the rock-hard mattress, she started back toward the hallway. The weather called for freezing rain and she hoped there was enough gas in the car because she hated to pump gas in the rain. She would have to go check.
I'll try to do some, you know, traditional blogging next time, before I post Chapter Three. I'm not promising anything, of course. I actually kind of enjoy posting this stuff. At least someone can read it.
Cheers,
D.A.
–– Two ––
Cynthia was all out of Bisquick.
She tore that whole kitchen apart before accepting it, but standing there, defeated inside the buzzing McAllister’s refrigerator, the hard truth loomed plain as day. Strike one. Perhaps she could have attempted something more elaborate, like eggs benedict, or those stroodle-pastries pushed way back in the freezer, but her heart had been set on them finding their breakfast prepared, a-la Mary Poppins, as they fumbled downstairs on robust little legs. So she settled for two overflowing bowls of ‘Choco-Nutems’ instead.
It was seven forty-three on Friday morning and she expected them down any minute. First would be Nicholas, the rambunctious elder at ten, followed closely by Patrick, younger brother, who would be seven come September. Ever since she began this pathetic little job looking after the two McAllister boys every other afternoon, she couldn’t help but ignore her redundancy. She was not, as a general rule, particularly fond of children; perhaps the result of being the eldest of three herself––and surrogate mother, as her own mother never grew tired of drilling in.
She was twenty-six now, and until accepting Henry’s somewhat out of the blue offer almost three months ago to the day, had never felt less like a responsible adult in her life. Four years after flunking out of journalism at NYU, she found herself on her own for the first time; her mother, the doormat, Rebecca Caldwell and step-father Gary proclaiming hands washed. Whatever remained of their token mother-daughter relationship dissolved slowly thereafter. But the real erosion started some years before, the day they lost the one true peace-keeper between them; her father, the only man she completely trusted.
When she met Henry McAllister, he seemed just like all the rest; though her jaw hurt like Hell. It was on an emergency trip to the orthodontist’s; the closest she could find in the yellow pages that day.
_____
“So how exactly did this happen, Miss…?”
“Rogers.” A fake name. She had no reason to lie but the word somehow slipped out. “I ah…tripped on the vacuum chord. Fell head first into the bedroom door.”
“Uh huh. I don’t recall seeing you around here. Are you new in town?”
“Sort of. I go to school up here. Journalism.”
“Is that right?” he said, reaching for something cold and pointy. “You know, I’ve got a niece who went to Columbia for journalism; works as a fact researcher for the New York Times.” Yes sir, Henry had an anecdote for every occasion. “And, open…”
_____
Right from the moment she sat in his chair, he saw through her façade.
_____
“Here’s an idea. How bout you come work for me?” The impromptu proposal came somewhere between the needle and that mirror do-hickey.
At first, she couldn’t tell whether he was serious or just teasing...what with the surgical mask. “You mean here?”
“Well, no, not––I meant at my home…” She kept her open mouth shut. “Seriously, my wife and I both work and our nanny just quit, which is a burden, yes, but the boys never really took to her anyway.” The man sounded dead serious. “I could start you off this afternoon, if you want; meet them as soon as they get home from school. You did say you were looking for something flexible, right?”
“Well…”
“Sorry,” he rapidly retracted, (the instrument and the suggestion). “Tell you what, why don’t you think it over…get back to me by say, the end of the week, sound good?”
_____
The next day she said yes.
What better place, she considered, to fall off the face of the earth.
Her first week of gameful employment, she mistook his good nature for something more––and one night in his driveway, tested the waters…
_____
“Believe me, honey, I couldn’t be more flattered…” he’d said, taking her hand in his firm, manly grip. “I just so happen to love my wife…” She couldn’t imagine why. The woman brought out the warmth in a block of ice. “Plus you’re probably much too good for me…” That got her to smile. She didn’t have the best luck with men. Not since a malignant tumor took away her hero––and Henry gave hope to the rest.
_____
It was ‘Dr. McAllister’ on most formal occasions, around his wife especially. Cynthia had come to suspect resentment on her behalf, and perhaps even a little jealousy, (which she sort of enjoyed). She knew the emotion well, after all. It’s what got her that chipped crown in the first place.
“I thought you said pancakes.” A tiny voice spoke.
Cynthia turned to the disappointed face of young Nicky McAllister.
“Good morning,” she said, cheerful. “We were. Guess your mom forgot to pick up more pancake mix. Maybe tomorrow, okay?” He continued to look on with disenchantment, as though he could tell it was just something to say.
“You’re not going to be here tomorrow. You think I don’t know that?”
“Listen,” she leveled. “I can’t make pancakes without the pancake mix, Nicky. I promise, we’ll do it the very next time I get the chance, okay? Can you forgive me?”
“Yeah, sure, whatever…” he grumbled, slinking in behind his bowl of unwanted cereal. She noticed he was getting very snippy lately and hoped it wasn’t due to her influence. Sarcasm got her into more than enough trouble already. “So where’s your brother? Doesn’t he usually come down with you?”
“Don’t think he’s feeling too well.” He shrugged. “You might wanna go check on him,” crunching down a spoonful of pure concentrated sugar. Strike two.
Halfway up the stairs, she considered he could well be lying. She wouldn’t put it past him. With Nick, it was never so easy to tell.
Standing before Patrick’s closed door, she pushed it, and her anxiety aside.
The boy rested undisturbed beneath the blanket. “Patrick…? Patrick, honey. It’s me, Cynthia...” Nothing. She quietly approached. “Your brother says you’re not feeling well...” The boy’s eyes crept open, as though drained of their strength. “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong, sweetie?” she began, stroking his sweaty forehead. A quiet cough escaped before he managed to mouth the words,
“my tummy hurts…”
“Oh. Well, I’m sure we can fix that. Why don’t you try sitting up, okay?” She lifted the heavy covers off his forty-eight pound frame and noted the gaping stains in his bedsheets and pj’s. It wasn’t until she reached down and touched his soaking wet t-shirt that she realized it was sweat.
“Mommy...”
“No sweetie, it’s me, Cynthia. Do you want a glass of water?”
“I want…Mommy…” He strained not to cry. She was worried.
“Do you feel like you want to throw up?”
“No...”
“How bout we go into the bathroom just in case?” she said, and carried him.
In the bathroom, she sat him down gently on the toilet seat and began searching. “I’m cold...” he whimpered. At last she came across a box with a doting mom sticking a thermometer into the mouth of a healthy-looking little girl, and ripped it open.
“I know you are, honey. I’m just gonna check your temperature, then we’ll get you another blanket, okay?”
“Okay…” The little guy was remarkably agreeable; (a stark contrast to his brother). Sliding the thermometer gently under his tongue, she retreated back into the hallway to find him a clean blanket.
He did not move an inch till she returned, and then, only to look vaguely up at her. He looked so pale; the heavy thermometer pulling his lower lip down past his chin. Wrapping the blanket around his shoulders, she removed it from his mouth. One hundred fourteen. Not good. The phone rang, startling her into nearly dropping it altogether. Please be Henry, she thought, as it stopped in mid-ring––
Nick must have got it.
“You know what I think I’m going to do for you today, Patrick? I’m gonna make you a big cup of my world famous hot chocolate…” Her voice rose an octave and she realized she was channeling her mother. Strike three.
“kay…” he barely replied. It seemed like the last thing he wanted.
“Cynthia!” Nick shouted. “Phone!” Henry, she hoped, looking back to Patrick.
“I’ll be right back.” The boy remained silent, only shivering. The sight made her question the decision to leave him, but she thought she saw a cordless phone in the master bedroom.
“Cynthia!” Nick again, having the nerve to sound impatient.
“I’m coming!” she belted, reaching the McAllister bedroom and switching on the black cordless phone on the nightstand.
“Hello...”
“What took you so long?” Immediately she recognized the cold condition of––
“Mrs. McAllister. Good morning. I was, um…” Cynthia swallowed, bracing. “…just checking on Patrick, who’s apparently…a bit…under the weather…”
“What? What’s wrong?” she erupted, losing her mind. “Oh I can’t believe he would just…so typical... Where’s Henry?”
“Mrs. McAllister, calm down, please, everything’s fine. Hen––Mr. McAllister––Doctor––had to see an early patient. He said he’d be back by around noon…”
“Early patient…” she scoffed… “What’s his temperature?”
Cynthia braced again. “About…one fourteen...”
“Oh my poor baby…” A short pause–– “Alright, listen carefully; I assume you’ve been instructed to take the boys to school, correct?”
“Um, yes but––”
“Good. You’re to drop off Nick, as planned, but I want you to take Patrick to The Community Medical Centre…it’s a corner building at Rodan and Drury, you can’t miss it. With me so far…?”
“Yes, but––”
“I’ll call ahead so they don’t blow a gasket when he doesn’t show up for roll call and meet you in the waiting room at quarter to nine, okay?” This time it was Cynthia’s turn to pause, not much caring for her tone…and to make sure she was finished…
“Cynthia, are you there?”
“And what about…Mr. McAllister…? Would you like me to, um, try to––”
“No, dear, don’t bother. Just make sure Nick has his homework finished before he tries to weasel out of it later. And keep Patrick as comfortable as possible. Aspirin’s alright but nothing stronger, do you hear me…?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” She was holding her tongue.
“Tell him Mommy will see him very soon.” She hung up without even goodbye.
Cynthia hung up very soon after.
There was a name for people like Mary-Ann McAllister. In fact, there were several. Standing up off the rock-hard mattress, she started back toward the hallway. The weather called for freezing rain and she hoped there was enough gas in the car because she hated to pump gas in the rain. She would have to go check.
I'll try to do some, you know, traditional blogging next time, before I post Chapter Three. I'm not promising anything, of course. I actually kind of enjoy posting this stuff. At least someone can read it.
Cheers,
D.A.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
An Axis Oblique - Chapter One
Happy Sunday!
Okay, continuing where I left off, I suppose, I thought I'd post the first chapter of my epic horror novel, An Axis Oblique. For those of you just joining us, the Prologue is posted below. Check out the archive. This should give you a good taste of the characters and tone. Hope you enjoy.
–– One ––
Keith Merrimac was finally asleep.
After weeks of getting up with that feeling he’d just gone to bed, dragging his ass in day after day on nothing but coffee, cigarette smoke and determination, there was nothing left to do now but relax––and get back to normal.
It had been the longest case of his twelve and a half year career, which on nights like this one, felt at least like twice as long. People didn’t generally come to Maplewood to make trouble. That was one of the reasons he’d transferred here to begin with, after four hellish years on New York’s meanest streets.
_____
“Okay, so not all of us are cut from the same big city cloth.” His ex-captain at the 81st Precinct, Andy Eckersol, tried hard to talk in some sense. “But that’s no reason to throw away a promising career. Now I may know of something a bit more your speed. It’s up North. How’s about I put in a call?”
_____
For awhile, the fit was just fine.
Till the rug got pulled out from under him.
_____
“Who the hell are you to question my moral integrity, you sick son of a bitch? You deserve to fry for the things you’ve done. Hell, I ought’a just kill you right here…”
_____
In New York, things were much simpler. One needed to be angry; and perhaps a little crazy to survive the daily beat; and though probably he was both, he’d started to resent the man he’d become; a crusty old bitter pill who narrowly managed his own inner-demons.
Till tonight.
It’s not what he’d said that most frightened him. He’d been a cop a long time and said much worse things than that. The Maplewood Rapist, otherwise known as Richard K. Pollack; whom he’d pursued for twenty-seven months and possessed but the faintest scraps of basic humanity, had the audacity to find fault with his conscience.
Only seconds before drifting into a subconscious stupor, Keith’s tongue tasted the sticky blood still on the roof of his mouth. It was dry; and bittersweet, like so much in his life. If his desperate need for deep rest hadn’t finally won outright, he’d have stayed awake all night, thinking…
_____
“I’m not afraid to die, Detective.” The lowly degenerate grinned, gun square in his smooth, sweaty temple. “Quite the contrary.” And Keith tightened his grip on the twitchy Berretta. More than anything, he yearned for the terror in those dark, soulless eyes. “Question is, do you have what it takes? To snatch life from the cusp of compassion? Doubtful. No, I suspect you’re nothing special. One more sheep, like the rest of them, hiding behind that sleek silver shield. Just another damned coward, killing time between cravings...”
So he pulled back the hammer; knowing how easily he could get away with it. “Do it!” his own inner voice demanded.
And he was going to. If not for what happened next...
“Detective Merrimac!” It took him a second to acknowledge the voice of Squad Sergeant Manning. “Sir, take a step back please. My men can take it from here.”
A few seconds more before he responded, lowering his weapon slowly…
“Thank you, sir,” Manning said, not entirely sincere. “And allow me to be the first to congratulate you on a job admirably well done.”
_____
He would never forget the look on Pollack’s sunken face that night, realizing he was not going to die as planned, but instead rot his miserable life away inside a grimy prison cell. Keith saw fear for the very first time, and the seeds of resentment in that cold, empty stare.
Hours later, he lay still in his bed, barely awake, considering the question for maybe the thousandth time:
What would have happened; could have happened if Manning hadn’t…
but a blink before falling asleep, the oblique answer came––
A Sudden Change of Plans…
Things were definitely different.
Quieter. Definitely. All of it darker…more final...
A hollow shell, void of sound, sense and all basic comprehension left dissonantly in place... Perhaps this is Hell, was mildly entertained…
(conclusion, the first)…
then cast off just as quick.
He considered the possibility he had indeed experienced this familiar nothingness once before, perhaps even a number of times, and could vaguely sense what it took to sustain his stupendous existence. He attempted a smile––but curiously lacked sufficient resolve. He then tried to stand, (if in fact he were not standing already; there was no way to tell), and again felt no inclination of success or failure.
To blink…to cough…to breathe… But it was no use.
The vessel was quiet––
and Perry was alone.
It was all much too soon, he considered. Sonny had always kept in above-average health, (Perry saw to that), projecting expectancy of and/or up-to at least eighty good years, (perhaps longer); and aside from a rather shady mind for morals, which Perry couldn’t help but admire, (even encourage from time to time), had next to nothing in the way of unhealthy habits. Their mid-morning jog was, in fact, a shared ritual for which they could claim mutual affinity; that glorious symmetry apparent in all known creation; one with which Perry himself frequently rationalized his own miraculous existence.
The emptiness was intolerable.
His patience as well, had begun to wear thin and a sudden craving for fresh blood threatened to ravage the cold, dark chasm that passed for his boundless imagination...
So…hungry…
(conclusion, the second)…
It would have to be soon though; an annoying little priority, of which he was all too aware. And above all, a new vessel must be swiftly secured, before…
…cold…so…cold…
He realized it was coming from the lifeless shell, which confined him.
…is this…dying…?
A puzzling sensation, but he thought it best not to fight. Instead, he would rest a while longer; conserve his energy, and reflect… Soon another; more worthy of him would emerge, ripe for the plucking, as it had been for millennia––or more…to rescue him from this dank, desolate prison...
The only thing left to do now…
was wait.
It was the phone that finally woke him. The first few rings crossed into Keith’s subconscious, initially convincing him he was still in a dream. Its relentless pursuit did him in though––eventually––pulling him from the comforts of his dream-world and back into the cold, dark reality of his one-bedroom apartment.
He consulted the clock, still not entirely sold. The phone went on ringing and he really wished he’d remembered to switch over to voicemail last night before bed. It rang again. “Shit.” The sun shone into his face despite the closed shade and the clock read 10:47.
“Yeah?”
“Detective Merrimac? I’m, ah…sorry, sir, did I wake you?” The voice sounded atypically sincere.
“Not at all, Lieutenant…” he groaned, not so convincing. “…just had a few loose ends to, um…”
“Hey, no. No, not to worry. Thornhill was gonna let you off easy today anyway.” Keith heard him pop one of those disgusting Nicotine gums he flaunted like the poster-boyscout he was. The man chewed like a fucking cow. “Except, well…see, the reason I’m calling, sir, is, um, well, seems we kinda need you down here...”
Keith’s face went white-er.
“What’s the problem?”
“Well, sir, looks like a double homicide in a public mensroom up at the Bluemont Palisades. Ordinarily I’d get Davies on it, but he’s already up north and...”
“The shopping mall? You gotta be kidding me. No way Pollack could’ve...” The chewing sound ceased––
“Well no, sir, that’s just it. Thing’s not even an hour old but…one of the victims has been identified as a Dr. Henry McAllister; employer of the late Jessica Todd…”
It was difficult to fathom. Despite these last years, homicide was far from the norm here in Maplewood. Perhaps, (though he dreaded the possibility), some sort of deranged copycat had already taken up Pollack’s bloody mantle in twisted tribute. “I’ll just get a few things together,” he said, eager to see for himself. “Make sure no one touches anything.”
“Yes, sir. So, um…when should we expect you?”
“Gimmie twenty-five minutes,” he lied; and abruptly hung up––
Keith stood out of bed and went for the shower. He vaguely remembered this McAllister fellow from Jessica Todd’s funeral. Quite a while ago now, he thought back; she being one of Pollack’s first victims.
Showering, his mind went into overdrive. He brushed his teeth, then shaved and laid out his cleanest shirt and slacks. “So much for taking it easy,” he murmured, stealing a few sips of cold coffee…
Hardly halfway out, he heard the phone ring again––but hesitated just long enough for it to go dead in the doorway––
Barrett, he thought, and closed the door behind him. Annoying prick.
* * *
From the outside, he’d have guessed the Bluemont Palisades Shopping Complex had been hit by a small meteorite, or nuclear device. There were at least four cruisers out front of the southwest entrance, lights flashing up a red and blue spectacle. A pair of uniformed cops were on crowd control as more and more people gathered behind an inadequate barrier of yellow police tape. Keith Merrimac pulled in his rusty Cutless Supreme and nearly plowed into a reporter or two, snapping bulbs and shouting questions
The officer approaching lit up with a big, inappropriate grin. Sergeant Lisa Fiorentine, a bubbly young sophomore with thick, black hair pulled back into a ponytail underneath her cap took instant note of his decidedly more professional posture.
“Detective Merrimac,” she gushed. “I wasn’t expecting…” Then turned, taken aback by his blatant ignorance. “I mean…well, sir, after last night I assumed Detective Davies would be…” Despite his irritation, he wasn’t trying to be rude; merely preoccupied.
“Davies is on assignment,” he explained. “I’m afraid you guys are stuck with me on this one. Now, where exactly am I headed?”
“Oh, it’s, um, just through those doors, make a sharp right at the foodcourt to a sign marked ‘restrooms.’ Our guys are everywhere; you can’t miss it...”
“Alright, do me a favor please, Sergeant, and keep this crowd to a minimum.” He kept his tone tender, but firm, stepping over her far-too-wordy response.
_____
“It’s all in the way’a things…! The way’a things, y’understand? They’re everywhere, hear me? Everywhere! Too late to turn back the tides...”
_____
For some reason he was reminded of the ramblings of an aging homeless man outside Radio City Music Hall. “Whole world’s goin’ straight to Hell and there ain’t a damn thing we can do bout it!” He and his partner, NYPD veteran, Colin McKee, attempted to drag his drunk ass into the waiting squad car for charges most likely drummed-up, like loitering, or vagrancy maybe…
The giant JC Penny sign shone like a beacon above scores of oblivious shoppers. On either side, there were rows of tiny, compartmentalized stores, all open for business––and eerily identical. Perhaps the homeless man wasn’t so far off after all.
Keith could see the ‘RESTROOMS’ sign just ahead; the narrow corridor sealed off by police tape, and a familiar, though not entirely friendly face. Lieutenant Peter Estes, a tall, muscular man of Latino decent with impeccably clean-shaven, olive skin and a capless head of thinning black hair, stiffened instinctively. Maybe two dozen words had passed between them in their nearly four-year association––
“Lieutenant…” he said in a voice both discreet and commanding.
“Morning, sir,” the statuesque figure replied, his lips barely moving, and the detective stopped dead, not quite certain how to react to the smug resonance in his tone and overzealous sense of duty. It was admirable; nevertheless annoying as hell.
“Yeah, suppose it is...” He responded; a twinge of enthusiasm in his wily delivery. Not too much, however. That would be overdoing it.
The blood-soaked body of Henry McAllister greeted him head on as he entered the drafty men’s room, laying sprawled across the off-white linoleum outlined in thick chalk. Keith assumed it had been thoroughly analyzed, as per standard procedure, and Barrett, if for nothing else, could be counted on to follow it to the letter.
The next body belonged to Barrett himself, hunched over and facing the interior of the stall next to farthest from where he stood, and a trail of blood that began at the washroom’s outer door came to an abrupt halt. The lieutenant didn’t see him right away, and Keith took the moment to gather his thoughts, taking a long hard look around.
It was similar, though much sloppier and more awkward than the horrible scenes he’d come onto in the past; most of them women, left by the deviant, Richard Pollack.
In the panoramic reflection, he studied the stains in reverse…
“Detective. I didn’t notice you come in.” The younger, scrawnier man spoke with restraint. He looked positively exhausted, tie resting aloof over his right shoulder, loosened substantially but for some reason not removed. His usually combed, curly brown hair looked a mess, frizzed from the moisture and his own sweat. Right now, it was dripping down his face and sticking through his powder-blue shirt. Keith feebly fought the urge to poke fun.
“What’ve you got for me, Mitch?” He turned to follow him back toward the first body, kneeling over it for a better perspective. One bullet had left a bloody wound over the right eye and exited the back of his head, scattering pieces of skull and brains all over the hand dryers before lodging firmly into the solid stone wall.
“The other guy’s got a similar wound, though more in the middle of his forehead; tells me our killer took his time…” Barrett continued with this line, standing up and motioning for his superior to follow. “I’ve spoken to ‘mall security;’ told them to set up a goddamn camera somewhere in this place. Deadbolt too, was an incident waiting to happen…”
The second and much younger victim’s fatal wound was perfectly centered between and above his closed eyes. Funny. He’d have thought they’d be popping out due to shock. The kid had the sort of expression one could never get used to, and Keith couldn’t seem to resist bending down to examine it more closely.
Something was immediately off. It was horrified, naturally, but also, there was this vast exhaustion, as though death had come as sweet release. If one looked deeply enough, in fact, another, more subtle expression could be detected in the cold, black residue, which seemed to almost get darker, and…larger…the longer he looked…
The young man himself, (who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five), appeared well over six feet tall and of Portuguese or Cuban decent. His complexion was at least a shade or two darker than Keith’s, as were his hair and eyes, which, upon looking once more, were by far the darkest of his exotic features.
For a moment, he could swear they were hiding something, disconnected from the broken shell before him. It looked like…life…but…not… He almost got lost in them, lured by their eloquent beauty, like finely polished glass or a small body of water turned calm after a crippling downpour. He could feel a sudden rush of adrenaline; of purpose coursing through him, and when he––someone was talking––
“––pears to have been inflicted a good half hour before the one to the head...” Barrett hadn’t stopped, and Keith was uncertain how long they’d actually been standing there. The lieutenant seemed determined to demonstrate his thoroughness, going over every last detail like a child on his first day of kindergarten.
“Uh-huh…” Keith nodded, as though he’d been listening. “So how can you tell which came first?” He caught on quick enough.
Barrett gave him an unflattering look, and with a touch of his customary pride, responded: “Well, sir, for starters the leg wound’s been bleeding a lot longer and, as I’m sure you’re aware, there’s a nasty trail of blood out there, leading from the sinks and urinals to this stall here, where our victim appears to have bled uninterrupted for several more minutes before being put out of his misery. Coroner says that occurred approximately one hour and seventeen minutes ago.” He stopped, waiting for a response. Keith, looking down at the man’s oddly-positioned left leg, finally noticed the deep gash across his ankle and nodded once again as though the answer was obvious to him, and the question rhetorical. “Meaning all this likely took place somewhere nearby, at or around 10:30 and as a result of our suspect’s initial attempt…”
Keith’s mind was clearer now, standing up straight, his control fully regained. “So, does Jon Doe here have a name yet?”
The lieutenant nodded haphazardly, consulting his notepad… “License identifies him as Sonny Luis Duval. Born in San Pedro; December fourteen, nineteen––”
…poor Sonny…such an undignified way to go…
“––and another thing…” Barrett was still talking. “…his wallet’s full’a cash. We found Visa, Debit and MasterCards, all untouched. Same goes for McAllister...”
Keith looked up, intrigued. Leaving the cramped stall, he gestured for one of the photographers to get a few extra shots. “Makes sense when you see the bodies.” He felt more than ready for another cup of coffee. “We could well be looking for a professional.” Out of the corner of his eye, Barrett’s ears perked up. Keith thought he could use a good cup himself––and pulled rank.
“The first step is to get a good look at the two bullets, see if they came from the same gun…” he said as the two men headed down the narrow corridor toward the noisy shopping environment, passing Lieutenant Estes on the way, whose posture stiffened. “What about the man who found them?”
“He’s still pretty shaken…” Barrett replied, struggling to keep up… “Guy was taking his five year-old grandson to use the potty. How the hell do you explain that?”
“I’d like to talk to him nonetheless. The kid can go home.”
“Already sent him packing,” Barrett said. “Fletcher and Banks took gramps to the food court for a bite and, ah, the boy’s mother came and got him half an hour ago…”
Perfect, thought Keith, suddenly famished. “Lead the way, Lieutenant…”
There you have it. More to come.
Bye for now.
D.A.
Okay, continuing where I left off, I suppose, I thought I'd post the first chapter of my epic horror novel, An Axis Oblique. For those of you just joining us, the Prologue is posted below. Check out the archive. This should give you a good taste of the characters and tone. Hope you enjoy.
–– One ––
Keith Merrimac was finally asleep.
After weeks of getting up with that feeling he’d just gone to bed, dragging his ass in day after day on nothing but coffee, cigarette smoke and determination, there was nothing left to do now but relax––and get back to normal.
It had been the longest case of his twelve and a half year career, which on nights like this one, felt at least like twice as long. People didn’t generally come to Maplewood to make trouble. That was one of the reasons he’d transferred here to begin with, after four hellish years on New York’s meanest streets.
_____
“Okay, so not all of us are cut from the same big city cloth.” His ex-captain at the 81st Precinct, Andy Eckersol, tried hard to talk in some sense. “But that’s no reason to throw away a promising career. Now I may know of something a bit more your speed. It’s up North. How’s about I put in a call?”
_____
For awhile, the fit was just fine.
Till the rug got pulled out from under him.
_____
“Who the hell are you to question my moral integrity, you sick son of a bitch? You deserve to fry for the things you’ve done. Hell, I ought’a just kill you right here…”
_____
In New York, things were much simpler. One needed to be angry; and perhaps a little crazy to survive the daily beat; and though probably he was both, he’d started to resent the man he’d become; a crusty old bitter pill who narrowly managed his own inner-demons.
Till tonight.
It’s not what he’d said that most frightened him. He’d been a cop a long time and said much worse things than that. The Maplewood Rapist, otherwise known as Richard K. Pollack; whom he’d pursued for twenty-seven months and possessed but the faintest scraps of basic humanity, had the audacity to find fault with his conscience.
Only seconds before drifting into a subconscious stupor, Keith’s tongue tasted the sticky blood still on the roof of his mouth. It was dry; and bittersweet, like so much in his life. If his desperate need for deep rest hadn’t finally won outright, he’d have stayed awake all night, thinking…
_____
“I’m not afraid to die, Detective.” The lowly degenerate grinned, gun square in his smooth, sweaty temple. “Quite the contrary.” And Keith tightened his grip on the twitchy Berretta. More than anything, he yearned for the terror in those dark, soulless eyes. “Question is, do you have what it takes? To snatch life from the cusp of compassion? Doubtful. No, I suspect you’re nothing special. One more sheep, like the rest of them, hiding behind that sleek silver shield. Just another damned coward, killing time between cravings...”
So he pulled back the hammer; knowing how easily he could get away with it. “Do it!” his own inner voice demanded.
And he was going to. If not for what happened next...
“Detective Merrimac!” It took him a second to acknowledge the voice of Squad Sergeant Manning. “Sir, take a step back please. My men can take it from here.”
A few seconds more before he responded, lowering his weapon slowly…
“Thank you, sir,” Manning said, not entirely sincere. “And allow me to be the first to congratulate you on a job admirably well done.”
_____
He would never forget the look on Pollack’s sunken face that night, realizing he was not going to die as planned, but instead rot his miserable life away inside a grimy prison cell. Keith saw fear for the very first time, and the seeds of resentment in that cold, empty stare.
Hours later, he lay still in his bed, barely awake, considering the question for maybe the thousandth time:
What would have happened; could have happened if Manning hadn’t…
but a blink before falling asleep, the oblique answer came––
A Sudden Change of Plans…
Things were definitely different.
Quieter. Definitely. All of it darker…more final...
A hollow shell, void of sound, sense and all basic comprehension left dissonantly in place... Perhaps this is Hell, was mildly entertained…
(conclusion, the first)…
then cast off just as quick.
He considered the possibility he had indeed experienced this familiar nothingness once before, perhaps even a number of times, and could vaguely sense what it took to sustain his stupendous existence. He attempted a smile––but curiously lacked sufficient resolve. He then tried to stand, (if in fact he were not standing already; there was no way to tell), and again felt no inclination of success or failure.
To blink…to cough…to breathe… But it was no use.
The vessel was quiet––
and Perry was alone.
It was all much too soon, he considered. Sonny had always kept in above-average health, (Perry saw to that), projecting expectancy of and/or up-to at least eighty good years, (perhaps longer); and aside from a rather shady mind for morals, which Perry couldn’t help but admire, (even encourage from time to time), had next to nothing in the way of unhealthy habits. Their mid-morning jog was, in fact, a shared ritual for which they could claim mutual affinity; that glorious symmetry apparent in all known creation; one with which Perry himself frequently rationalized his own miraculous existence.
The emptiness was intolerable.
His patience as well, had begun to wear thin and a sudden craving for fresh blood threatened to ravage the cold, dark chasm that passed for his boundless imagination...
So…hungry…
(conclusion, the second)…
It would have to be soon though; an annoying little priority, of which he was all too aware. And above all, a new vessel must be swiftly secured, before…
…cold…so…cold…
He realized it was coming from the lifeless shell, which confined him.
…is this…dying…?
A puzzling sensation, but he thought it best not to fight. Instead, he would rest a while longer; conserve his energy, and reflect… Soon another; more worthy of him would emerge, ripe for the plucking, as it had been for millennia––or more…to rescue him from this dank, desolate prison...
The only thing left to do now…
was wait.
It was the phone that finally woke him. The first few rings crossed into Keith’s subconscious, initially convincing him he was still in a dream. Its relentless pursuit did him in though––eventually––pulling him from the comforts of his dream-world and back into the cold, dark reality of his one-bedroom apartment.
He consulted the clock, still not entirely sold. The phone went on ringing and he really wished he’d remembered to switch over to voicemail last night before bed. It rang again. “Shit.” The sun shone into his face despite the closed shade and the clock read 10:47.
“Yeah?”
“Detective Merrimac? I’m, ah…sorry, sir, did I wake you?” The voice sounded atypically sincere.
“Not at all, Lieutenant…” he groaned, not so convincing. “…just had a few loose ends to, um…”
“Hey, no. No, not to worry. Thornhill was gonna let you off easy today anyway.” Keith heard him pop one of those disgusting Nicotine gums he flaunted like the poster-boyscout he was. The man chewed like a fucking cow. “Except, well…see, the reason I’m calling, sir, is, um, well, seems we kinda need you down here...”
Keith’s face went white-er.
“What’s the problem?”
“Well, sir, looks like a double homicide in a public mensroom up at the Bluemont Palisades. Ordinarily I’d get Davies on it, but he’s already up north and...”
“The shopping mall? You gotta be kidding me. No way Pollack could’ve...” The chewing sound ceased––
“Well no, sir, that’s just it. Thing’s not even an hour old but…one of the victims has been identified as a Dr. Henry McAllister; employer of the late Jessica Todd…”
It was difficult to fathom. Despite these last years, homicide was far from the norm here in Maplewood. Perhaps, (though he dreaded the possibility), some sort of deranged copycat had already taken up Pollack’s bloody mantle in twisted tribute. “I’ll just get a few things together,” he said, eager to see for himself. “Make sure no one touches anything.”
“Yes, sir. So, um…when should we expect you?”
“Gimmie twenty-five minutes,” he lied; and abruptly hung up––
Keith stood out of bed and went for the shower. He vaguely remembered this McAllister fellow from Jessica Todd’s funeral. Quite a while ago now, he thought back; she being one of Pollack’s first victims.
Showering, his mind went into overdrive. He brushed his teeth, then shaved and laid out his cleanest shirt and slacks. “So much for taking it easy,” he murmured, stealing a few sips of cold coffee…
Hardly halfway out, he heard the phone ring again––but hesitated just long enough for it to go dead in the doorway––
Barrett, he thought, and closed the door behind him. Annoying prick.
* * *
From the outside, he’d have guessed the Bluemont Palisades Shopping Complex had been hit by a small meteorite, or nuclear device. There were at least four cruisers out front of the southwest entrance, lights flashing up a red and blue spectacle. A pair of uniformed cops were on crowd control as more and more people gathered behind an inadequate barrier of yellow police tape. Keith Merrimac pulled in his rusty Cutless Supreme and nearly plowed into a reporter or two, snapping bulbs and shouting questions
The officer approaching lit up with a big, inappropriate grin. Sergeant Lisa Fiorentine, a bubbly young sophomore with thick, black hair pulled back into a ponytail underneath her cap took instant note of his decidedly more professional posture.
“Detective Merrimac,” she gushed. “I wasn’t expecting…” Then turned, taken aback by his blatant ignorance. “I mean…well, sir, after last night I assumed Detective Davies would be…” Despite his irritation, he wasn’t trying to be rude; merely preoccupied.
“Davies is on assignment,” he explained. “I’m afraid you guys are stuck with me on this one. Now, where exactly am I headed?”
“Oh, it’s, um, just through those doors, make a sharp right at the foodcourt to a sign marked ‘restrooms.’ Our guys are everywhere; you can’t miss it...”
“Alright, do me a favor please, Sergeant, and keep this crowd to a minimum.” He kept his tone tender, but firm, stepping over her far-too-wordy response.
_____
“It’s all in the way’a things…! The way’a things, y’understand? They’re everywhere, hear me? Everywhere! Too late to turn back the tides...”
_____
For some reason he was reminded of the ramblings of an aging homeless man outside Radio City Music Hall. “Whole world’s goin’ straight to Hell and there ain’t a damn thing we can do bout it!” He and his partner, NYPD veteran, Colin McKee, attempted to drag his drunk ass into the waiting squad car for charges most likely drummed-up, like loitering, or vagrancy maybe…
The giant JC Penny sign shone like a beacon above scores of oblivious shoppers. On either side, there were rows of tiny, compartmentalized stores, all open for business––and eerily identical. Perhaps the homeless man wasn’t so far off after all.
Keith could see the ‘RESTROOMS’ sign just ahead; the narrow corridor sealed off by police tape, and a familiar, though not entirely friendly face. Lieutenant Peter Estes, a tall, muscular man of Latino decent with impeccably clean-shaven, olive skin and a capless head of thinning black hair, stiffened instinctively. Maybe two dozen words had passed between them in their nearly four-year association––
“Lieutenant…” he said in a voice both discreet and commanding.
“Morning, sir,” the statuesque figure replied, his lips barely moving, and the detective stopped dead, not quite certain how to react to the smug resonance in his tone and overzealous sense of duty. It was admirable; nevertheless annoying as hell.
“Yeah, suppose it is...” He responded; a twinge of enthusiasm in his wily delivery. Not too much, however. That would be overdoing it.
The blood-soaked body of Henry McAllister greeted him head on as he entered the drafty men’s room, laying sprawled across the off-white linoleum outlined in thick chalk. Keith assumed it had been thoroughly analyzed, as per standard procedure, and Barrett, if for nothing else, could be counted on to follow it to the letter.
The next body belonged to Barrett himself, hunched over and facing the interior of the stall next to farthest from where he stood, and a trail of blood that began at the washroom’s outer door came to an abrupt halt. The lieutenant didn’t see him right away, and Keith took the moment to gather his thoughts, taking a long hard look around.
It was similar, though much sloppier and more awkward than the horrible scenes he’d come onto in the past; most of them women, left by the deviant, Richard Pollack.
In the panoramic reflection, he studied the stains in reverse…
“Detective. I didn’t notice you come in.” The younger, scrawnier man spoke with restraint. He looked positively exhausted, tie resting aloof over his right shoulder, loosened substantially but for some reason not removed. His usually combed, curly brown hair looked a mess, frizzed from the moisture and his own sweat. Right now, it was dripping down his face and sticking through his powder-blue shirt. Keith feebly fought the urge to poke fun.
“What’ve you got for me, Mitch?” He turned to follow him back toward the first body, kneeling over it for a better perspective. One bullet had left a bloody wound over the right eye and exited the back of his head, scattering pieces of skull and brains all over the hand dryers before lodging firmly into the solid stone wall.
“The other guy’s got a similar wound, though more in the middle of his forehead; tells me our killer took his time…” Barrett continued with this line, standing up and motioning for his superior to follow. “I’ve spoken to ‘mall security;’ told them to set up a goddamn camera somewhere in this place. Deadbolt too, was an incident waiting to happen…”
The second and much younger victim’s fatal wound was perfectly centered between and above his closed eyes. Funny. He’d have thought they’d be popping out due to shock. The kid had the sort of expression one could never get used to, and Keith couldn’t seem to resist bending down to examine it more closely.
Something was immediately off. It was horrified, naturally, but also, there was this vast exhaustion, as though death had come as sweet release. If one looked deeply enough, in fact, another, more subtle expression could be detected in the cold, black residue, which seemed to almost get darker, and…larger…the longer he looked…
The young man himself, (who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five), appeared well over six feet tall and of Portuguese or Cuban decent. His complexion was at least a shade or two darker than Keith’s, as were his hair and eyes, which, upon looking once more, were by far the darkest of his exotic features.
For a moment, he could swear they were hiding something, disconnected from the broken shell before him. It looked like…life…but…not… He almost got lost in them, lured by their eloquent beauty, like finely polished glass or a small body of water turned calm after a crippling downpour. He could feel a sudden rush of adrenaline; of purpose coursing through him, and when he––someone was talking––
“––pears to have been inflicted a good half hour before the one to the head...” Barrett hadn’t stopped, and Keith was uncertain how long they’d actually been standing there. The lieutenant seemed determined to demonstrate his thoroughness, going over every last detail like a child on his first day of kindergarten.
“Uh-huh…” Keith nodded, as though he’d been listening. “So how can you tell which came first?” He caught on quick enough.
Barrett gave him an unflattering look, and with a touch of his customary pride, responded: “Well, sir, for starters the leg wound’s been bleeding a lot longer and, as I’m sure you’re aware, there’s a nasty trail of blood out there, leading from the sinks and urinals to this stall here, where our victim appears to have bled uninterrupted for several more minutes before being put out of his misery. Coroner says that occurred approximately one hour and seventeen minutes ago.” He stopped, waiting for a response. Keith, looking down at the man’s oddly-positioned left leg, finally noticed the deep gash across his ankle and nodded once again as though the answer was obvious to him, and the question rhetorical. “Meaning all this likely took place somewhere nearby, at or around 10:30 and as a result of our suspect’s initial attempt…”
Keith’s mind was clearer now, standing up straight, his control fully regained. “So, does Jon Doe here have a name yet?”
The lieutenant nodded haphazardly, consulting his notepad… “License identifies him as Sonny Luis Duval. Born in San Pedro; December fourteen, nineteen––”
…poor Sonny…such an undignified way to go…
“––and another thing…” Barrett was still talking. “…his wallet’s full’a cash. We found Visa, Debit and MasterCards, all untouched. Same goes for McAllister...”
Keith looked up, intrigued. Leaving the cramped stall, he gestured for one of the photographers to get a few extra shots. “Makes sense when you see the bodies.” He felt more than ready for another cup of coffee. “We could well be looking for a professional.” Out of the corner of his eye, Barrett’s ears perked up. Keith thought he could use a good cup himself––and pulled rank.
“The first step is to get a good look at the two bullets, see if they came from the same gun…” he said as the two men headed down the narrow corridor toward the noisy shopping environment, passing Lieutenant Estes on the way, whose posture stiffened. “What about the man who found them?”
“He’s still pretty shaken…” Barrett replied, struggling to keep up… “Guy was taking his five year-old grandson to use the potty. How the hell do you explain that?”
“I’d like to talk to him nonetheless. The kid can go home.”
“Already sent him packing,” Barrett said. “Fletcher and Banks took gramps to the food court for a bite and, ah, the boy’s mother came and got him half an hour ago…”
Perfect, thought Keith, suddenly famished. “Lead the way, Lieutenant…”
There you have it. More to come.
Bye for now.
D.A.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
An Axis Oblique - Prologue
Been away for awhile. Thought I'd post a bit of my first novel, An Axis Oblique. There were a few translation descrepencies when I brought it over from it's original file. I'll try to clean them up as best I can. Hope you enjoy.
An Axis Oblique - Prologue
December 20, 10:10
Sonny’s asthma took a turn for the worse and strange things started to go through his mind.
Like their laughter; relentless and cruel,
as though mercy hinged mainly on how he’d endure.
The conduciveness of his tall and lanky frame to a lifetime of respiratory difficulty was a medical certainty, corroborated by his own family physician several years back during his substantial growth spurt at the age of fourteen. Nevertheless, out there on the yard, where laugher bullied logic to the brink of respect, he was forced to pretend, and through coughing, and hiccups, and wheezes––they taunted, tormented, and pushed––
too far…swing a left toward the foodcourt…
By the end of the Bluemont’s West Plateau, his hurry had decayed into a slow, awkward lurch. The pressure weighed heavy and he longed for relief. Any such attempt however, would likely lead straight to the one place he could least afford; that dire somewhere between narrow escape…and sure confrontation. Frantic, he ducked down a long, concealed corridor, checking over his shoulder one last time before moving out of range for good.
The man in the burgundy sport coat was lost in the holiday rush, and a sudden sense of obscurity poured over him as he caught glimpse of his blood-soaked pant-leg. Even now, in his oxygen-deprived state, he could not say for certain who the man was or why he’d attacked him so viciously. No matter. Sonny had dealings with all sorts of ‘less-than-legitimate’ contractors in and around Maplewood, and knew most used hired hands to do their dirty work. Old Vladolingo must have rubbed the wrong someone the very wrong way.
A sharp pain, previously masked by pumping adrenaline reached him at last and, making his way past the women’s restroom, he let out a gasp of uneven agony before pushing through the heavy MENROOM door.
It was empty, to his great relief, as he began to breathe unrestrained. Were he of even mildly sounder judgment, he might have recognized this decent into shock but, however incoherent, his thoughts were on his current predicament, (among other subtle intrusions), and instinct was screaming for him to end this incessant sting. So be it.
His blood fell drop by drop to the cold linoleum as he clamored to drench a clump of paper-towel in lukewarm water. Carefully, he rolled up his pant leg to reveal a wound much deeper than believed and dabbed at it with the crude disinfectant. It was no use. The wound flowed with purpose, his entire leg slowly subsiding into a warm, tingling bliss…
Eyes glossing over, he stood, mesmerized by the site of his own spilling blood. There was an odd order to the thin streams and thickening blobs, assembling all kinds of images in his mind as the sun beat down hard against his back. Gazing into the expanding red clouds, he could feel beads of sweat forming along his hairline and down the back of his neck. An incurable beauty consumed him with thoughts of song birds in soaring winds over tall, leafy trees and thick, crashing waves; much like the ones he’d watched for hours as a small boy at his Cousin Marianna’s house in Havana. He wanted nothing more than to sleep now, and allow his tired mind to go there, unimpeded; so warm and so safe inside a memory it so desperately longed to revisit.
Soon, he found himself inside a stall; leg propped against the door, bandaged clumsily by at least three quarters of a role of toilet paper. The pain suddenly returned and he let out a panting wail that lasted long enough for him to consider the room’s stable silence––
Perhaps the man in the burgundy sport coat had missed his sharp detour entirely. Perhaps it was safe to emerge for some much-needed assistance…
Sure beats the alternative…
Everything around him seemed determined not to cooperate, all blurry and unable to stand still. He no longer possessed the strength to stand and a wave of nausea tore through him. The sun beat so bright, it pained to look even in its general direction, but that was impossible, for it seemed everywhere. So tired…
kay, take a minute…but not one second more…
*
“Hello!”
Henry called out––again––and again, got no answer. Never had he seen so much blood in one place. It was all over the floor, across walls and the mirror, leading finally and almost sequentially, to the next to last stall, where a single leg rested off-kilter. For a moment, he thought he was going to be sick.
By the time he got closer, it was so strong he no longer felt the urge to relieve himself; (precisely what drove him in here to begin with). Had he known he’d be greeted by a bloody mess, (which, though by no means an expert, appeared to him rather fresh), he’d most certainly have been able to hold it.
He could see traces of blood from the adjacent stall and up close, the solitary leg. The pants were of a spandex-type material, ideal for cold sweat, (which suited the mood swimmingly). Swallowing hard, he stepped onto the seat and gradually moved up––and over…
A tall, slim young man sat immobilized on the toilet with one leg wedged between his body and the stall’s front door wrapped tightly in blood-soaked toilet paper. His worst fears were soon quelled when the man’s chest rose slightly––then sunk; (though just barely, and possibly not for much longer). So long as there was a chance to save him, however, he had to make every effort. He descended, setting his sights on more competent help––
just as the door was thrust open outside––
*
Krieger saw the bloody mess and at long last, his chance.
At first he damn-near overshot, allowing for that, which he’d waited so patiently to slip through his fingers once and for all. But now that he saw for himself, he knew all would end here. Not the ideal location for a job such as this, but thoroughness mattered more than cleanliness, he decided, following the thoughtful red trail toward the next to last stall.
“Oh thank God…” Some silver-streaked yuppie emerged out of nowhere, cutting him off. “There’s a guy in there who desperately needs a doctor…” Krieger clenched his jaw.
“I just came in for a piss…” he stammered in his best unassuming ‘Joe Yankee.’ The man looked at him, dumbfounded.
“Didn’t you hear what I––just, please…wait here a sec while I go get some help.”
Krieger cut in front of him.
“No––,” backing slowly toward the door… “Listen, I can’t stand the site of blood, pal. How bout you let me go?”
The stunned gentleman looked hesitant. “What? All right, fine. But you have to hurry. For God’s sake, it may already be too late...” The kind stranger backtracked as Krieger acknowledged:
“Won’t be but a jiffy,” he said––and turned down the copper deadbolt.
The jittery bastard must have heard something fishy, swerving around sharp––
“Wait, I thought you said––”
Done.
Krieger assumed the added mess would only confuse investigators––and confusion was usually good. Resuming at last, toward his most-pressing objective, he reached coolly into the velvety inside pocket of his tight-fitting burgundy sport coat…
The young man was unconscious, but breathing. “Friendly fool was right, I suppose,” he said, familiar, quietly slipping on his old, mirrored sunglasses as he turned to the dead man with the bleeding head just a few feet away…then back––to address Sonny’s dead, empty eyes… With a stone face, he raised his pistol, “Damn near caught up to ya too late...” and pulled the trigger.
It was over. At long last, the vessel had been neutralized. Young Sonny Duval was finally dead, and barring the much-too-merciful hand of God Himself…
Perry Finch died with him.
An Axis Oblique - Prologue
December 20, 10:10
Sonny’s asthma took a turn for the worse and strange things started to go through his mind.
Like their laughter; relentless and cruel,
as though mercy hinged mainly on how he’d endure.
The conduciveness of his tall and lanky frame to a lifetime of respiratory difficulty was a medical certainty, corroborated by his own family physician several years back during his substantial growth spurt at the age of fourteen. Nevertheless, out there on the yard, where laugher bullied logic to the brink of respect, he was forced to pretend, and through coughing, and hiccups, and wheezes––they taunted, tormented, and pushed––
too far…swing a left toward the foodcourt…
By the end of the Bluemont’s West Plateau, his hurry had decayed into a slow, awkward lurch. The pressure weighed heavy and he longed for relief. Any such attempt however, would likely lead straight to the one place he could least afford; that dire somewhere between narrow escape…and sure confrontation. Frantic, he ducked down a long, concealed corridor, checking over his shoulder one last time before moving out of range for good.
The man in the burgundy sport coat was lost in the holiday rush, and a sudden sense of obscurity poured over him as he caught glimpse of his blood-soaked pant-leg. Even now, in his oxygen-deprived state, he could not say for certain who the man was or why he’d attacked him so viciously. No matter. Sonny had dealings with all sorts of ‘less-than-legitimate’ contractors in and around Maplewood, and knew most used hired hands to do their dirty work. Old Vladolingo must have rubbed the wrong someone the very wrong way.
A sharp pain, previously masked by pumping adrenaline reached him at last and, making his way past the women’s restroom, he let out a gasp of uneven agony before pushing through the heavy MENROOM door.
It was empty, to his great relief, as he began to breathe unrestrained. Were he of even mildly sounder judgment, he might have recognized this decent into shock but, however incoherent, his thoughts were on his current predicament, (among other subtle intrusions), and instinct was screaming for him to end this incessant sting. So be it.
His blood fell drop by drop to the cold linoleum as he clamored to drench a clump of paper-towel in lukewarm water. Carefully, he rolled up his pant leg to reveal a wound much deeper than believed and dabbed at it with the crude disinfectant. It was no use. The wound flowed with purpose, his entire leg slowly subsiding into a warm, tingling bliss…
Eyes glossing over, he stood, mesmerized by the site of his own spilling blood. There was an odd order to the thin streams and thickening blobs, assembling all kinds of images in his mind as the sun beat down hard against his back. Gazing into the expanding red clouds, he could feel beads of sweat forming along his hairline and down the back of his neck. An incurable beauty consumed him with thoughts of song birds in soaring winds over tall, leafy trees and thick, crashing waves; much like the ones he’d watched for hours as a small boy at his Cousin Marianna’s house in Havana. He wanted nothing more than to sleep now, and allow his tired mind to go there, unimpeded; so warm and so safe inside a memory it so desperately longed to revisit.
Soon, he found himself inside a stall; leg propped against the door, bandaged clumsily by at least three quarters of a role of toilet paper. The pain suddenly returned and he let out a panting wail that lasted long enough for him to consider the room’s stable silence––
Perhaps the man in the burgundy sport coat had missed his sharp detour entirely. Perhaps it was safe to emerge for some much-needed assistance…
Sure beats the alternative…
Everything around him seemed determined not to cooperate, all blurry and unable to stand still. He no longer possessed the strength to stand and a wave of nausea tore through him. The sun beat so bright, it pained to look even in its general direction, but that was impossible, for it seemed everywhere. So tired…
kay, take a minute…but not one second more…
*
“Hello!”
Henry called out––again––and again, got no answer. Never had he seen so much blood in one place. It was all over the floor, across walls and the mirror, leading finally and almost sequentially, to the next to last stall, where a single leg rested off-kilter. For a moment, he thought he was going to be sick.
By the time he got closer, it was so strong he no longer felt the urge to relieve himself; (precisely what drove him in here to begin with). Had he known he’d be greeted by a bloody mess, (which, though by no means an expert, appeared to him rather fresh), he’d most certainly have been able to hold it.
He could see traces of blood from the adjacent stall and up close, the solitary leg. The pants were of a spandex-type material, ideal for cold sweat, (which suited the mood swimmingly). Swallowing hard, he stepped onto the seat and gradually moved up––and over…
A tall, slim young man sat immobilized on the toilet with one leg wedged between his body and the stall’s front door wrapped tightly in blood-soaked toilet paper. His worst fears were soon quelled when the man’s chest rose slightly––then sunk; (though just barely, and possibly not for much longer). So long as there was a chance to save him, however, he had to make every effort. He descended, setting his sights on more competent help––
just as the door was thrust open outside––
*
Krieger saw the bloody mess and at long last, his chance.
At first he damn-near overshot, allowing for that, which he’d waited so patiently to slip through his fingers once and for all. But now that he saw for himself, he knew all would end here. Not the ideal location for a job such as this, but thoroughness mattered more than cleanliness, he decided, following the thoughtful red trail toward the next to last stall.
“Oh thank God…” Some silver-streaked yuppie emerged out of nowhere, cutting him off. “There’s a guy in there who desperately needs a doctor…” Krieger clenched his jaw.
“I just came in for a piss…” he stammered in his best unassuming ‘Joe Yankee.’ The man looked at him, dumbfounded.
“Didn’t you hear what I––just, please…wait here a sec while I go get some help.”
Krieger cut in front of him.
“No––,” backing slowly toward the door… “Listen, I can’t stand the site of blood, pal. How bout you let me go?”
The stunned gentleman looked hesitant. “What? All right, fine. But you have to hurry. For God’s sake, it may already be too late...” The kind stranger backtracked as Krieger acknowledged:
“Won’t be but a jiffy,” he said––and turned down the copper deadbolt.
The jittery bastard must have heard something fishy, swerving around sharp––
“Wait, I thought you said––”
Done.
Krieger assumed the added mess would only confuse investigators––and confusion was usually good. Resuming at last, toward his most-pressing objective, he reached coolly into the velvety inside pocket of his tight-fitting burgundy sport coat…
The young man was unconscious, but breathing. “Friendly fool was right, I suppose,” he said, familiar, quietly slipping on his old, mirrored sunglasses as he turned to the dead man with the bleeding head just a few feet away…then back––to address Sonny’s dead, empty eyes… With a stone face, he raised his pistol, “Damn near caught up to ya too late...” and pulled the trigger.
It was over. At long last, the vessel had been neutralized. Young Sonny Duval was finally dead, and barring the much-too-merciful hand of God Himself…
Perry Finch died with him.
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