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.